“I’ll get you to dress him dear, while I tidy up,” Dr Jenkins said. He added, “I realise you’re visitors to York and that you came to my surgery in the police car. Let me drive you to your vehicle. I’m sure any patients in the waiting-room will be only too happy for me to do that. And I won’t charge you for this consultation. Like many of my fellow townspeople, I’m very grateful that you saved poor Mrs Smart from any harm.”
“Thanks Doctor,” I said, struggling with the shirt again. The jeans were more difficult to get on than off, yet Magnus seemed to enjoy my struggle with them and did very little to help except reluctantly lifting his buttocks off the bed so I could pull the jeans up. Desperately trying not to touch the bulge in his crotch, I was so clumsy and light-headed with desire that my whole palm grazed against what seemed to me to be a very big and hard penis. Magnus winked at me, despite being groggy, but I was too flustered and embarrassed to know how to respond.
“Come along, mate,” Dr Jenkins said, helping Magnus down once I’d managed to get him dressed. “You’ll need to rest up for a week or so. And that includes no driving. You don’t want to strain your eyes. They’re very bloodshot. Lie down as much as you can, let yourself be waited on hand and foot and, when you’re feeling better, you can expect a visit from Mrs Smart herself, I’m sure.”
Eventually, Magnus was lying on one of the mattresses in Matilda, the doctor having given me directions to the nearest caravan park. The park manager had already heard about Magnus’ heroic fight and pointed out a pretty spot by the river, shaded by a massive lemon-scented eucalypt.
“The showers and toilets are close and there’s a shop for milk, bread and newspapers a few metres further on,” the manager told me. “It’s a pleasant stroll under the trees along the river. But I’d be happy to get anything you need if you don’t want to leave the patient.”
After talking to the manager, I checked on Magnus, expecting him to be asleep. He was wide awake, but curled foetus-like. “Are you okay?” I asked. “Dr Jenkins said you could have something stronger for pain if you needed it.”
“Just cold,” he murmured, his voice unsteady. “Bit of a shock.”
“Here, have this other blanket. Maybe you’d like some warm, sweet tea too. It’s supposed to be good for shock.”
I lay the blanket over him. I was amazed by his courage and strength but now the gulf between us seemed even more insurmountable than before. In my eyes, he’d been like a movie star from the first moment I saw him in my drive-way. Now he was a superhero. Way too fabulous for someone like me.
“Virginia…”
“I’m here. Do you need something?”
“You,” he said slurrily.
“I think you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I want you to like down beside me,” he mouthed slowly. “I need to be comforted.”
“Me? You want me beside you?”
“Please.”
“But I’m Virginia. I’m not your wife.”
“I don’t want my wife,” he bit out.
Sure he was suffering delusions, but reluctant to sap his strength by forcing him to explain what he really wanted, I kicked off my shoes, climbed under the covers and lay beside him stiffly, my arms at my sides.
“Hold me,” he whispered.
Shakily I did as he asked, almost swooning as waves of ardour rolled and crashed deep, deep inside me. I felt as if I was being tossed rapturously on a boiling sea.
“I love your breasts against my shoulder-blades,” he mumbled huskily. “You’re so warm and lovely.”
I couldn’t have spoken if I’d wanted to. There was a massive lump in my throat and my body was quietly, inwardly spinning out of control. He must have been able to feel the mighty shock-waves that galloped through me. The rock-like shape of his back, his firm bum against my belly, made my heart clatter and sent me soaring on a tsumami of bliss.
“This is nice,” he murmured. “I’m getting warm now.” He snuggled against me and soon his breathing slowed and I realised he was fast asleep. Well, I’m hardly exciting, am I? I admonished myself. For a man like Magnus Winchester I’m just a great big doona. Giving way to tears, I cried softly against his broad, unknowing back.
When I woke, in pitch darkness, I wondered for a second where I was. Then, feeling Magnus move lumberingly beside me, I remembered.
“Virginia,” he whispered, less groggily, “I need to pee but I don’t think I’ll be able to walk to the toilet. I’m dizzy as hell. Can you find me a bottle or something?”
I jolted into action, clambering to my feet and trying to locate a light switch.
“Over the stove,” he said.
I snapped it on and, in the cupboard under the stove, found a tall empty pickle jar. I handed it to him and he tried to sit up and unzip his fly but was too dizzy.
“Can you help? Quick, or I’ll wet myself.”
I knelt down beside the mattress and took over from his bruised fingers.
“Take it out,” he said urgently. “I can’t bend my fingers to hold it.”
I got his penis out and held it over the jar just in time. It felt surreal, to be doing something so incredibly intimate for this god-like man. Surreal and mind-blowingly sexy. His penis, even flaccid, was huge and a slightly darker honey-brown than the rest of his skin.
“It’s hurting,” he whispered. “It’s taking longer than usual. Sorry.”
“I don’t mind,” I whispered back in the half-light. I could have held his cock forever.
The golden urine gradually filled the jar and when he finished he asked me to shake his dick a little to get rid of the last drops. As I did, it sprang into a half-erect angle and I gasped involuntarily. I was so hungry for him my knickers were sodden.
“I’ll go and tip this out under a tree,” I whispered, not trusting my voice.
“Take all my clothes off when you come back,” he said. “I’ll feel better with nothing on.”
“Okay.”
When I returned to the van, he’d slid up into a sitting position and was looking embarrassed.
“Virginia,” he said, “I’ll understand if you don’t feel up to nursing me. I know only too well that it’s not a job that suits everyone. I think I should admit myself into the hospital.”
“Oh no, I want to look after you,” I argued, almost in tears.
“You sure?” he began, a grin tweaking the corners of his mouth. “I’ll probably be better in a day or two, if you can bear it.”
“Of course I can,” I smiled. “You were so brave and now you’re hurt. I’ll happily nurse you. Although I probably wouldn’t be as good as a real nurse.”
“You’re great already.”
“I suppose I should start by getting you naked,” I said, amazed by my boldness.
“Just that the belt’s pushing against a bruise that’s appearing on my back and every time I turn the tee-shirt tangles under me and pulls,” he said.
This time I undressed him languorously, admiring the broad shoulders, the smooth muscles in his arms, the curly pubic hair above the long, half-hard penis that moved with a life of its own, sometimes touching his upper thigh, sometimes his belly. His legs were fine and strong, the ankles and feet surprisingly vulnerable seeming.
“Are you thirsty?” I asked when he was lying more comfortably.
“Mmm, and hungry,” he said.
I helped him half-sit up and held a glass while he sipped water, wiping the drops that fell on his broad chest.
“I’ll make some soup,” I said when he’d had enough. “It’ll probably hurt you to eat. I wouldn’t advise you to look in the mirror for a while as you’ll end up in even more pain if you could see what those bikies did to you. Although you did far more damage to them.”
“It feels as if I’ve got a fat lip. Have I?”
“Uh-huh. And it looks really painful.”
Nursing wasn’t my forte but cooking, even on a camper stove in the middle of the night, was. I worked confidently as he
watched from the mattress, cutting up onions, leeks and potatoes and frying them in butter before adding chicken stock and lashings of nutmeg and pepper. While the soup was simmering I made gruyere cheese croutons then blended the warm mixture and dropped the croutons in so they’d be soft for Magnus’ sore mouth. I poured some into two bowls and topped the lot with fresh parsley.
“This smells fabulous,” he said, “But you’ll have to help me eat it. I don’t think I can hold a spoon.”
I rested the bowls on my mattress and lifted some to his mouth. He swallowed carefully, as if it hurt him.
“Eat yours too,” he urged. “Have a spoonful of yours in between giving me mine.”
It was funny eating this way and I got the bowls and spoons mixed up and became a bit giggly because it was such a weird situation. He laughed too – or tried to as he was so weak.
“This is good,” he said when he’d finished his bowl. “Not just the soup. You being here.”
“I like it too.”
I put the leftover soup in the fridge, washed the dishes and noticed that from the small window over the sink the sky was turning pink. It was almost dawn. I was relieved because I felt so self-conscious about getting into my oversize pyjamas and into the mattress next to his. That was one embarrassing moment that could be put off for a while longer. Instead, I sat on the edge of his mattress and said, “You were really terrific yesterday. Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“In the playground,” he answered with a wry grin. “There were always kids who enjoyed calling me names because of what my Dad did for a living. Later, on the farm, I had to help after school. I suppose I built up some useful muscles, throwing hay-bales and shearing.”
“I felt so proud of you,” I said shyly.
“Thank you. No-one’s ever said that to me before.”
“It’s true.”
“Your parents must’ve been proud.”
“If they were, they never said so. I think they were a bit overawed by having a son who went to University. I’m the first in our family to even finish high school. They found it hard to relate to me, as if I’d sprouted green hair or something.”
“What about your sister, the one who gave you Matilda?”
“Oh she’s okay with me. But our parents were rocked years ago when our baby brother died of cot death. When that happened they seemed to bond even closer together as if it was them against the world. My sister and I’ve always felt a bit excluded and I guess that’s why I was so keen to get married, to have someone special to love, like they did.”
“But it didn’t work out that way?”
He shook his head.
There was an awkward silence – a pregnant pause as Peta’d say – which I didn’t know how to fill. Finally I said, “Would you like me to read to you?” There was no television in Matilda to help the hours to pass, and Magnus’ eyes were so red he couldn’t have read to himself.
“Would you?” he asked, sounding incredulous. “I used to love being read to as a kid. Robinson Crusoe, Kidnapped…I’d forgotten my sister’s a bookworm and that she’s stacked this old van with novels. We both used to love being tucked up in bed, safe, with Mum reading to us while the owls hooted outside and the wind sent showers of gumnuts rattling down on the tin roof. My wife’s reading doesn’t extend beyond glossy fashion magazines.”
“While I was waiting for the soup to cook I hunted around in the cupboards and found tons of books,” I said. “What do you feel like? There are thrillers, detective stories, sci fi…”
“I’m like a kid in a lolly shop. I want it all,” he laughed.
So I began a thriller and really got into it, putting on the characters’ voices and accents and enjoying all the drama the author created. I’d had plenty of practice reading to Bree on all those nights I babysat her while Peta was painting the town red.
“Wow!” he exclaimed, when I came to the end of the first chapter as sunlight was flooding the van. “That was brilliant. You’re brilliant. If I’m very well behaved, can I have another chapter tonight?”
I laughed, but there was a note of bitterness there. If I was several sizes smaller he’d probably not be well behaved at all, despite the doctor warning him off any kind of sexual activity. I couldn’t think of a single woman who’d want a man like Magnus Winchester to be good. In a business-like way I said, “I think you should try to rest now, Mr Hero of York, even though it’s sunny outside. You’ll feel better if you get a good sleep.”
He was slightly less shaky later in the day but sitting upright at the fold-up card table and chairs I found in the van soon tired him and he had to lie down again.
I enjoyed concocting special meals for him – delicacies suitable for someone whose jaw had almost been smashed. I made asparagus omelette when he woke mid-morning, fettucine with basil pesto for a late lunch and coq au vin for supper. I remembered that Mum had nursed my Nanna for a few months before the old woman had to be admitted to a nursing home. Nanna had always been grumpy and I’d tried to avoid being sent to her room with trays, fearing a telling-off. In contrast, Magnus was a gracious patient who seemed pleased with everything I did for him.
The next few days passed slowly and peacefully, the summer withholding its usual high temperatures and yielding day after day of pearly skies, still water and balmy air. Neither of us wanted to move from our spot on the riverbank. The only time I dreaded was climbing into the mattress next to Magnus’ but I worked out that if I stayed up very late preparing the next day’s recipes he was usually fast asleep by the time I turned in. The doctor looked in every day and told me he’d sleep a lot because that was how his body would heal itself. So we were in no hurry to leave and I was secretly relieved I wasn’t too far away from Josie, Jake and Barney. And Magnus said that even if he’d been well he wouldn’t be in a hurry to leave York.
During his waking hours I continued to read to him but he also wanted to know more about work and my colleagues.
“And what do you hope for in the future?” he asked.
I gulped. I couldn’t admit that I wanted to get married, have children, and spend the rest of my life with…him. Instead, I said, “I hope I’ll still have the e-magazine and my friends, and that Josie gets better...”
“What do you really want?” he urged. “You’re hiding something.”
I blushed and snapped, “No I’m not!”
“You’re a warm, loving woman. Don’t you wish for a special relationship? A family of your own?”
“Of course I do. But so far, those things don’t seem likely. So I concentrate on my adopted family. One of the women at work has a daughter, Bree, whose father disappeared fourteen years ago. I sometimes think it’s more likely that my friend and her ex-partner, Josh, got together again than I’d ever find a partner.”
“What about Peter?” he said suddenly, urgently. “When I was at your place the first time he must’ve left a message on your mobile because you called him with a message of your own. You said something like ‘It’s me, Pete. All’s good. I’ll talk to you properly later. I love you’”
I was suddenly furious. How dare he be jealous! And repeat my words probably exactly as I said them. Was he some kind of creep? If Peta’s name had come up in a different kind of conversation, I would have told him that Peta was my best friend, a beautiful woman, that she wasn’t Peter, a man. But I was so angry with him for prying into my private life, for eavesdropping, that I decided I’d let him keep thinking that Peter was a special male in my life. I’d make a mystery of Peter to punish Magnus for daring to question me about him.
“Peter is none of your business,” I said curtly.”
His face fell and he said, “I know. I have no right to question you. Please accept my apologies.”
I nodded, still slightly cross.
“Tell me more about Bree,” he said.
He’d got me onto one of my favourite subjects and I smiled. “I love her as much as if she was my own flesh and blood. She certainly hel
ped me get on with my life after I lost my parents. It’s almost impossible to be permanently sad when there’s a bouncy toddler demanding you make sparkly pink play-dough or a new dress for Miss Teddy.”
He grinned. “I can easily picture you whisking a batch of pink goo on the stove or patiently producing teddy bear outfits.
I went on, “I’m proud to say that Bree’s mum relies on me to help bring Bree up because she can be a handful. Even Jake and Josie help out occasionally, getting her to do little jobs for them so she can earn some pocket-money. Bree’s as worried about Josie as Jake and I are.”
Magnus spoke little about himself and I longed to ask him about his hopes and dreams. I also wondered how his wife could have let him go. But I was frightened of finding out. I guessed there was an awful truth in his troubled heart.
“This is heaven,” he commented one afternoon, waking from a long siesta.
Fully clothed on the mattress beside him, I smiled my agreement.
“Only one thing could improve it,” he murmured huskily.
“You must be feeling better,” I said briskly, sure he’d made the slightly suggestive comment only because that’s what happened to male patients. They got randy.
Dr Jenkins called in again and expressed surprise at how fast Magnus was recovering.
“I’ve got a fabulous nurse,” Magnus said, grinning at the doctor. The two men were sitting at the card table with coffees the doctor had brought for us all. I was in the van, making pizza dough. I knew Magnus knew I could hear him and was amused when he said to Dr Jenkins, “I’m lapping up all this attention, doc. It’s pretty close to paradise, being here with Virginia, enjoying the view over the water, eating the most wonderful food. She’s my idea of the perfect woman.”
“I’d agree with you there,” Dr Jenkins replied. “I’d swap places with you any day. You have an intelligent, beautiful, loving companion, and nothing to do all day but eat the grapes she peels for you, metaphorically speaking. I’m pushing sixty-five and here I am, the only general practitioner in the district. I’m run off my feet. Ten years ago I loved it. But it’s getting too much for me now. My wife’s passed away, my children are all in the city and I s’pose I get lonely although I’m too busy to realise it.”
Love: Classified Page 8