Charity

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘How dare you presume so much.’ Stephen immediately puffed up with indignation and waved a warning finger at her. ‘I’m not senile yet, I can still make decisions for myself.’

  Stephen was aware that he was utterly dependent on this woman, both physically and mentally. The thought of someone having so much power over him scared him and he never missed an opportunity to try and put her back in her place.

  ‘No, you aren’t senile.’ Dawn smiled at him affectionately. ‘But you are tactless and somebody had to take you in hand. Besides, I know you’ve been hoping she’d bury the hatchet and this is proof she wants to.’

  He didn’t reply for a moment as if chewing it over in his mind.

  ‘Why should she just decide to come out of the blue like this? I don’t trust her, she wants something.’

  An improvement in his looks and health hadn’t changed his suspicious nature, especially where women and money were concerned. Neither had he learned to apologise, not even when he knew he was in the wrong.

  ‘Oh Stephen.’ Dawn sat down on the settee next to his wheelchair, shaking her head as if he were a small, stubborn boy. ‘Has she ever asked anything of you before?’

  Stephen was torn. He didn’t approve of bossy women and Dawn had no business to be sticking her nose into family affairs. But he had been considering how he could get Charity back into the fold again. He wasn’t exactly surprised that Dawn knew his private thoughts; at times she appeared to have taken him over entirely, mind and body.

  ‘Has she heard anything from Toby?’ He was anxious now, afraid Charity might bring bad news.

  ‘She didn’t say, but then that will give you something to chat about. She’s driving down later this afternoon, she should be here about seven.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why she should suddenly have a change of heart.’ Stephen turned his wheelchair round and began moving towards the door. ‘It’s been six years since my mother died and not a letter or a phone call. She did her best to turn Toby and Prudence against me and she influences James.’

  ‘For the good,’ Dawn said as she followed him to the door. ‘He’s a kind-hearted, considerate boy and she’s more than partially responsible for that. Charity’s the one who encourages him to work hard at school, she takes him to lovely places and not once has he ever said anything to me that would lead me to believe she makes you out to be an ogre. That’s a good enough reason to make peace, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said reluctantly.

  Dawn pushed him into the library.

  ‘Well that’s settled then! I must go now and make up a bed for her and ask Margaret to leave some supper for her. You won’t need me here so I’ll catch the seven o’clock bus.’

  Stephen jerked his head round sharply.

  ‘You aren’t leaving me here alone with her?’

  ‘Why on earth not!’ Dawn put her hands on her hips and glared at him. ‘She’s your niece, not a fire-eating dragon, and I haven’t had an evening with my sister for weeks. I’d only be in the way. You can talk much better without me here.’

  ‘But –’ he started to launch into his old routine about needing help.

  ‘You can easily get into that bed alone,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll leave you your medicine by the bed and the bottle in case you need it in the night. ‘I’ll be back on the first bus in the morning and Charity will be here if there is an emergency.’

  In the past few years, Stephen had become completely dependent on Dawn. And to her surprise, the years with Stephen had been some of the happiest in Dawn’s whole life. It had been unexpectedly rewarding stripping the old crusty layers from the man and finding a much younger, virile one buried beneath that surplus weight. His capacity for sexy games surprised her: hardly a day went by without him thinking up a new variation. He loved her striped uniform and black stockings and a glimpse of her white thighs was enough to give him an erection. Sometimes she strapped him down in his bed and teased him with her big breasts; sometimes it was a massage.

  But Stephen had learned how to please her too. At times she would pretend to be reading a book sitting on his bed and he’d wheel his chair up in front of her and slide his hands up her knicker legs, then once she was fully aroused she’d sit astride him and he would go on and on for ever until she had several orgasms. Yet it wasn’t just the wonderful sex they had together, but sharing things that meant the most.

  They would sit together in the evenings, listening to music, watching the television or doing jigsaws. By day she helped him in the garden, took him for long walks or just sat companionably reading. She might have given him back his health and vigour, but Stephen was the first man who had ever made her feel wanted, needed and loved.

  Dawn didn’t go straight back to him when she’d finished preparing Charity’s room; she packed an overnight bag and checked that all the upstairs rooms looked nice.

  She was curious about what Charity wanted too. Perhaps Charity thought it was time everyone was open about the children seeing her. It had been very silly for the first couple of years when Stephen pretended he didn’t know. But Charity hadn’t sounded quite herself on the phone; at least it wasn’t the clear, assertive voice Dawn remembered. Dawn hoped it wasn’t more trouble.

  She was wary of both Prue and Toby. Prue because she looked down her nose at Dawn, and sucked up to her uncle when she really cared nothing for him. It had been a relief when she got married and left Studley.

  Toby was far more lovable, but underneath that charming exterior she knew he was a rogue. As a boy he stole money from her purse, though Stephen hotly denied it. She was absolutely certain it was Toby who took the photo frames and she suspected other things had gone too, over the years.

  But he had been in the army for a year now; maybe that would sort him out. Dawn just wished he’d phone Stephen now and again. It didn’t take much to keep Stephen happy.

  Such a big house just for us two, she thought as she paused at the top of the wide oak staircase. Stephen had told her once that this house had been built in 1184 as a nunnery, something which always made her smile. Charles I had stayed here during the civil war and she loved to imagine those Cavaliers with long curling hair, velvet doublets and swords at their sides, striding around in the great hall.

  Dawn went out into the kitchen and made a pot of tea. As she came back in carrying the tray, she saw that Stephen had dropped the side of his wheelchair and hoisted himself out on to the Chesterfield.

  ‘Come and sit beside me,’ he said in a plaintive voice.

  Dawn put the tray down on a small table and drew it closer. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  Once that sort of question would have prompted a sharp retort, but instead he put his arm around her and drew her close.

  ‘Do you ever regret things you’ve said and done?’ he asked.

  ‘Often,’ she said, turning to face him. ‘Sometimes I lie awake thinking about them and wish I could apologise to the people involved.’

  ‘You are a good woman, Dawn,’ he murmured, his fingers reaching for the buttons on her dress. ‘Thank goodness you’ve stayed with me all these years.’

  His fingers found her right nipple and the way he rolled it between his fingers made her belly contract with desire.

  He moved his head down to her breasts, pulling her brassière down beneath them so they rose up to his face like two firm melons.

  ‘I can never get enough of these,’ he murmured, rubbing his lips from one nipple to the other and squeezing them gently. ‘I used to look at my dirty books and dream of having a pair in my hands. I never thought it would happen though, and even in my wildest dreams I never imagined being able to fuck someone again.’

  Dawn arched her back and let him suck at her nipples. If she closed her eyes she could imagine Stephen as he was in all those photographs of him when he was young: a green uniform with black buttons, a hard young body inside it. Just the thought of it made the blood rush to her head and her insides turn to jelly.
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  ‘You must promise me you’ll be nice to Charity,’ she said, as his hand crept up her thigh over her stocking tops. ‘And tomorrow night when she’s gone I’ll put on that naughty underwear you bought me and give you a really good seeing to.’

  ‘I can’t wait that long,’ he pleaded. ‘Sit on my chair and let me look at you.’

  She knew exactly what he meant; this was a game he loved to play. Sometimes she had to pretend she was asleep across his bed, sometimes he got her to perch on his desk just in front of him.

  One of his hands was already fumbling at the zip of his trousers.

  ‘It’s broad daylight and the curtains are open,’ she said, licking her full lips, excited herself now at the thought of the pleasure he would give her.

  ‘No one’s likely to look in my window.’ He grinned wolfishly. ‘Come on, Dawnie, show me your pussy!’

  She couldn’t resist him when he looked so hungry for her. She stood up, lifted her dress and pulled down her knickers, stuffing them under a cushion, then sat in his wheelchair facing him with her legs splayed apart.

  ‘You’re a naughty boy,’ she said reprovingly. ‘I’ve got a good mind to give you a spanking for making me do this.’

  Stephen forgot about his disappointment that Toby hadn’t written or phoned, and forgot too that Charity was coming later. All he could think of was that mound of dark pubic hair, the contrast of white belly and thighs against her black stockings and suspenders and how good it was to have a real woman to feel again.

  *

  ‘I hoped she’d be here by now.’ Dawn stood at the window with her dark blue coat on. ‘I’ll have to go if I’m to catch the bus.’

  She had given Stephen his supper, leaving Charity’s on a low heat, and the fire was lit in the drawing room. Out of uniform Dawn looked like any other middle-aged woman, with her greying hair and sensible stout shoes.

  ‘Go and catch the bus,’ Stephen said with a smile. ‘Leave the door on the latch for Charity. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Dawn bent to kiss him. It made her sad to think of what he had been and a little ashamed she didn’t really love him. But they were friends, she looked after him well and she knew she’d made him happier.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said, ruffling his hair with affection. ‘Now just you be nice to Charity – or else!’

  Stephen watched as she walked down the drive. She wasn’t graceful, she walked with a curious flat-footed plod and she had thick ankles. Before his accident he wouldn’t have looked twice at her. But he knew he loved her far more than he’d ever loved any other woman.

  It began to rain soon after eight, lightly at first, but growing heavier as he sat waiting for the sound of car tyres on the gravel.

  By nine it was torrential, wind bending the big cypress tree till it creaked and groaned.

  Stephen checked that the spark guard was in front of the fire in the drawing room. Dawn had picked dozens of tulips earlier in the day and the sight of the red and yellow flowers in the old pottery vase made her seem closer. She never went in for dainty arrangements, just picked flowers for their bright colours and plonked them in a vase. They looked more cheery like that, a vivid splash of colour in a sombre room.

  It was half-past ten when Stephen decided to go to bed. He poured himself a large tumbler of whisky, downed the two sleeping pills Dawn had left out for him, then lowered the side of his wheelchair and hoisted himself on to his bed.

  Of all the things Dawn had done for him, this one act of teaching him to get in and out of bed alone humbled him most. It reminded him of how he had wallowed in self-pity for years after his amputation, refusing the offer of artificial legs until it was too late.

  To think they once said he wouldn’t live beyond fifty! He’d show everyone – he’d still be around for his ninetieth birthday.

  The pills and the whisky began to work almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. He closed his eyes and thought about Dawn while the storm lashed around the house in fury.

  Stephen felt the softness of the pillow on his face, but in his dreams it was just Dawn’s big breasts comforting him.

  It was only when his hands tried to reach for her that he felt the restraints across his chest and knew this was no dream.

  He fought hard and long, bucking, thrashing and head-butting, his fingers clenching at the bedcovers, unable to reach his silent assailant.

  A sharp pain in his chest arrested any further movement. He could hear fluid bubbling in his lungs and all the time the pressure over his nose and mouth grew stronger.

  Dawn he tried to shout, but the word was only in his head and he knew this was the end.

  Charity bent over the steering wheel, her hands clenching it so hard her knuckles were white. By the time she’d got to Henley’s Corner on the North Circular Road the traffic was thinning and all she could see clearly was the road ahead in the beam of her lights. The rain was driven sideways by the strong wind, wipers having a hard job to clear it fast enough, and the impression was of being in a boat.

  Once on the dual carriageway she felt herself relaxing slightly. There were no more lights from houses, few other cars on the road and the speed was exhilarating. On and on she drove, past the turn-off to Beaconsfield, then on past High Wycombe. It was only when she saw signs ahead for Oxford that it dawned on her she had run out of her flat and driven this far without really knowing what she was doing.

  Why had she come out? Was it a crazy idea to go to Studley Priory, or to see Prue?

  To her further dismay she saw she was almost out of petrol, so she took the road to Cowley. It was another ten minutes before she saw a garage up ahead, but as she got closer she saw it was shut. She went on and on, with no idea where she was. She saw a sign saying ‘Iffley’ but this meant nothing and once again she only saw a closed garage. By the time she reached a still busy intersection Charity had lost all sense of direction and she turned right, thinking that led towards the centre of Oxford, but within minutes she became aware she was going further away from the town. Panic overtook her, she gripped the steering wheel harder still, peering through the rain-lashed windscreen, unable to see more than thirty feet ahead.

  At last she saw a brightly lit garage. Sighing with relief she pulled in and stopped. But as she turned to the passenger seat and saw no handbag the feeling of panic came back.

  She put her arms on the steering wheel, her head dropping on to them in bleak despair, tears welling up inside her.

  Her watch said ten past twelve. The hours between leaving the office and now were hazy. She had left her flat without knowing where she was going, or why, and she had no money with her. Was she going mad?

  A tap on the window made her look up. A man in a yellow oilskin coat was peering in. Charity sat up, wiped her eyes and opened the window.

  ‘What’s up, love? Lost yer way?’ the man said.

  ‘I need petrol,’ she said. ‘But I’ve just found I left my purse at home.’

  ‘Ain’t you got a cheque?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘Could you let me have petrol and I’ll send you one tomorrow.’

  The man sucked in his breath. The woman looked honest enough, too young and pretty to be trying it on and she’d been crying. But if she didn’t send a cheque on, he’d have to pay.

  ‘Can’t do that,’ he said. ‘You could leave yer watch as security.’

  Charity would have given him anything just then. She pulled it off her wrist and handed it to him.

  ‘OK, love,’ he said. ‘Fill ’er up then come over to the office for a receipt.’

  Anger took the place of apathy as Charity found she’d taken a wrong turning and ended up in the middle of a council estate. She would do as Rita said and see a doctor; maybe with help she could put all this hurt behind her. As for Toby, he could look out for himself from now on. At this moment she never wanted to see him again.

  She found her way back on to the right road eventually and now she wanted nothing more than to
be home, back in her little flat, safe within her own four walls. Round the roundabout she’d started off from and at last the signs showed she was back on the A40. The empty road seemed to go on and on for ever and she stepped harder on the gas to get home quicker.

  There was nothing to indicate she was approaching London. Lights had gone out in houses; even the street lamps appeared dull in the driving rain. With her foot hard on the accelerator, concentrating only on the road in front of her, she wasn’t aware she was approaching Hanger Lane. All she saw was the clear road ahead in the arc of her wipers. Not the red light.

  Bob and Janet Robinson were coming down from Ealing on their way home to Wembley in their Ford. Bob had his foot down and he was laughing at Janet’s tale about another guest at the dinner party. Their light was green and they belted across the crossroads.

  ‘Christ Almighty!’ Bob yelled as the black Mini appeared from nowhere right across their path.

  Stan Meadows lived in a flat above the shops that overlooked the crossroads. He was just going to bed when he heard the squeal of brakes and leapt to the window to see what was happening.

  The two cars collided with an almighty crash just as he looked out. The black car spun round in a complete circle and crashed into the barrier outside the tube station. The light-coloured one spun in the opposite direction, right round into the path of oncoming traffic.

  Sodium lamps made the scene as light as day. Rain lashing down turned the road to a river, a Belisha beacon on a pedestrian crossing making dozens of golden moon shapes in the water.

  For a moment he could only stare. He could see someone hanging halfway out of the black car’s windscreen, blonde hair vivid against the gleaming paintwork and steam or smoke rising from the smashed bonnet. When he looked back to the other car he saw there were two passengers, both slumped forward.

  He grabbed the phone and dialled 999.

  It was just after seven in the morning when Dawn Giles arrived back at Studley Priory, stepping past the huge puddles on the drive.