Saving Nathaniel

by Jillian Brookes-Ward

  He gave a small, sardonic snicker. 'No,' he said. 'It is too late and I am too old. I've already tried to play happy families once, and failed miserably. I'm not willing to jeopardise someone else's happiness just to satisfy my own.'

  There was nothing left to say, the discussion had reached a stalemate.

  Nat stood, picked up his glass and wandered across the hall to his study. He closed the door firmly, telling Megan, 'I don't want to talk any more.'

  Alone, he lowered himself into his chair and closed his eyes. He swallowed the last of the water. His throat hurt and the headache was on him with a vengeance.

  Chapter 12

  Nat's headache didn't get any better. In fact, it got very much worse. By evening, he felt decidedly poorly. His head was pounding and he felt feverish. In the kitchen drawer he found painkillers, swallowed them down with a large glass of water and went to bed.

  When Megan arrived next day, she found the back door locked against her and had to use her keys to let herself in. The usual morning smells of brewing coffee and burnt toast were conspicuous by their absence. Nat, it seemed, was not yet up.

  'Having a lie-in, you lazy beggar?' she thought, and pottered around as quietly as she could so as not to disturb him. When he hadn't appeared by late morning, she decided he had been indecently idle enough and went to rouse him.

  She knocked lightly on his bedroom door and waited for a reply. Not receiving one, she opened it a little and peeped through the gap. The room was dark, but she could make out a shape on the bed. 'Nat, are you awake?' she said, keeping her voice low. 'It's almost noon.'

  The shape stirred, groaned and hacked out a rough, deep cough.

  'Are you okay, Nat?'

  The voice in the dark sounded hoarse. 'No, Meg. I think I'm sick.'

  She crossed the room to the bed, taking care as her eyes adjusted to the gloom and switched on the bedside lamp. Nat immediately screwed up his eyes against its feeble light but it was enough for her to see he was, indeed, unwell.

  She laid her hand on his flushed and perspiring brow. It was furiously hot. The pulse at his burning neck raced.

  'You're very hot,' she said. 'Do you have a headache?' He blinked his affirmation.

  'Do you feel achey?'

  'Hmm.'

  'How's your throat?'

  'Like sandpaper,' he rasped in demonstration.

  'And a cough obviously.' She touched his brow again. 'Well, from the symptoms, it looks to me like you might have picked up a touch of the 'flu.' He groaned his agreement.

  'You stay where you are,' she said. 'I'll nip to the pharmacy and get something to make you feel better. Okay? I won't be long.'

  An hour later, she had dosed him with paracetamol and hot tea, and left him in the dark to sleep. She called in on him between chores throughout the day to see how he was faring, but to her dismay, he was not improving. By evening, his condition had worsened considerably. His fever had increased and he was restless. In her opinion, if only for safety's sake, he was in no fit state to be left alone. She called Rebecca.

  'He's sick, Becks. I think it's best I stay here with him.'

  'All night?'

  'I have to, I can't leave him.'

  'No, of course you can't. Have you called a doctor?'

  'I will when I've finished talking to you.'

  Her call to the out-of-hours medic confirmed her diagnosis and gave her advice on how to deal with Nat's fever - regular doses of paracetamol, keep him cool but not chilled and make sure he drank plenty of water.

  She returned to his room and prepared herself for a long night. Although carried out the doctor's instructions to the letter, he didn't seem to be getting any better.

  His fever made him delirious and agitated. He threw off the covers and fidgeted and mumbled in his sleep. More than once cried out for Joanna. Megan hushed and soothed him as best she could, gently wiping his face and body with a moist cloth, leaving behind fine droplets of water that would evaporate and carry away heat. He tossed and turned fitfully all through the night, one moment sweating and irritable, the next shaking with chills and she did what she could to make him comfortable.

  Around dawn he finally settled and fell into a deep sleep. Exhausted herself, Megan dropped into a chair by the bed, folded her arms on the pillow beside him, dropped her head onto them and drifted off into a doze.

  She woke with a start to find her back and neck stiff. Carefully she stretched herself, cracking her spine and loosening her shoulders. The bedside clock told her it was almost eleven in the morning.

  Nat was still sound asleep. Gently she laid her hand on his forehead. His fever was no longer the furnace it had been in the middle of the night. The immediate crisis appeared to be over.

  Feeling it safe to leave him to sleep for a while longer, she went downstairs to make tea and find something to eat and using the extension in the kitchen, she telephoned Rebecca again.

  'How is he?' Rebecca asked.

  'He's pretty sick, Becks. He frightened me there for a while, but I think he's going to be okay. I'm going to stay here for the day just to make sure. Can you do me a favour?'

  'If I can.'

  'Will you pack me a change of clothes and ask Paul if he'll drop it off for me?

  'Sure. Is there anything else you need?'

  'Not at the moment, thanks. I'll see you later.'

  'Take care, Sis. Bye.'

  'Bye bye.' She hung up

  When she returned to Nat's room later that day, he was just beginning to rouse. She switched off the table lamp and drew the curtains back just enough to let in a little daylight. She opened the window slightly, allowing some fresh air to circulate.

  In the grey daylight, he looked very pale and completely washed out. With his sunken eyes surrounded by deep, purple shadows, a newly revived corpse might have looked healthier.

  'What time is it?' His words through dry lips and sore throat were frail and strained.

  'It's just gone two in the afternoon,' she said.

  'You said it was nearly noon.'

  'That was yesterday. You've been very ill all through the night.

  'Have I?'

  'I'm afraid so.'

  'And have you been here all the time?'

  'Yes, I have.'

  He shivered. His profuse sweating had soaked into his pyjamas and bed sheet and pillows. They were dark with damp and had turned clammy, cold and uncomfortable.

  'I won't be a minute,' she said and disappeared from the room to return moments later laden with clean bed linen and fresh, plump pillows. 'Now that you're awake, let's see if I can't make you a little more comfortable.'

  Using a trick learned from her mother, a nurse of forty years' experience, she removed his sheet from under him, replacing it nimbly with a newly laundered one. With a fair amount of embarrassment for both of them, she managed to relieve him of his pyjama bottoms and fit him with a clean, dry pair.

  He sank into the heap of clean pillows, embraced by their softness. He closed his eyes, thankful for the coolness of the fresh linen against his skin.

  'Comfy?' she asked.

  He smiled his appreciation. 'Much better, thanks.'

  She sat on the bed and held the mug while he, not having the strength to hold it himself, swallowed down his medication with a mouthful of warm tea.

  He suffered a sudden spasm of coughing and fell back again onto the pillows, his strength drained.

  'Thank you for looking after me.' The whisper was so frail, it barely made it to her ears and unable to keep them open, he then allowed his eyes to fall closed, asleep again before he had finished speaking.

  She brushed back his hair and planted a light kiss on his forehead. 'You're welcome, sweetheart,' she whispered back.

  Shortly afterwards, Paul arrived with an overnight bag Rebecca had packed. 'How's the patient?' he asked.

  'He'll live. It's just a dose of the 'flu. A few days in bed and he'll be as right as rain. He's fussing already. Thanks for these.'
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br />   'My pleasure, doll,' he said. 'If you need anything else, just yell.'

  'I will. Will you stay for some tea?'

  'No, Becca's got me running some errands for her. I'd best get on.' With a bright, 'Cheerio,' and a wave, he departed.

  After he had gone, Megan washed her face and changed her clothes. It felt good to freshen herself up.

  Nat slept on and off, for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening. Sleep, always the best medicine in Megan's book, seemed to be doing him good. Between chores, she called in to check on him.

  At around ten p.m, he woke and seemed more alert. She sat on the bed and put her hand against his brow. It was still very warm, but nowhere near as hot as before. 'How are you feeling?' she asked.

  'Like death,' he croaked and frowned at her. 'Why are you still here?'

  'Because you pay double time at weekends, remember. And where else am I going to go on a Saturday night?' She offered him a glass of water. 'You'll be pleased to know your fever's coming down.'

  He swallowed the cold liquid gratefully and settled back on the pillows. 'You called me sweetheart,' he said.

  'I call everybody sweetheart. I was just being friendly.'

  'No, I'm sure that one was just for me…and you kissed me.' He pointed to his forehead. 'Right there.'

  'Nah, you must have been dreaming. What would I want to do a thing like that for? I don't want to catch your nasty germs.'

  'Because I think you like me.'

  'You do flatter yourself.'

  She wiped his face and neck with the facecloth and he moaned his appreciation of its damp coolness. She dropped the cloth into a basin of tepid water, wrung it out and folded it neatly before wiping the inner part of each of his arms, dampening the skin inside his wrists where the moisture would draw heat.

  Without warning, he seized hold of her hand. 'I'm sorry, Meg,' he said.

  'For what? It's not your fault you're sick. You didn't make me stay here to nurse you.'

  'Not for that. For other things.'

  'Such as?'

  'Such as me being an absolute bastard to you over the last few weeks. I don't know what came over me. I've been in a kind of dark funk and I know I've given you such a hard time.'

  'No, you haven't...well, not more than usual.'

  He stroked her fingers and toyed with her silver ring, turning it around and idly rubbing his thumb over the elephants engraved into it. 'I have, and you know it…you shouldn't waste your time on me.'

  'I haven't got anything else to do…although the oven could do with a good clean.' She offered him the glass of water and noted his gloomy, downcast countenance. She also offered him light smile to show she was teasing. 'You didn't really think I would leave you to suffer on your own, did you?' she said, and wiped a stray dribble from his chin.

  'No,' he said weakly. 'You wouldn't do that. But you ought to by rights, I deserve it.'

  'Blimey, you really know how to feel sorry for yourself, don't you?'

  For a moment he was quiet, and then he said, 'Do something for me, Meg?'

  'I will, if I can. What do you want?'

  'I want you to kiss me again, just so I know I wasn't dreaming.'

  The request caught her off guard. When he had been in a semi-conscious state, in the throes of delirium, she didn't think he was actually aware that she had kissed him, and it had seemed a harmless enough gesture at the time. If he had been fully awake, she wouldn't have done it.

  Apparently, it seemed, he had been aware, and now he wanted her to repeat it. Feeling it would be churlish of her to refuse a sick man's wish, she lightly touched her cool lips against his damp forehead.

  'Don't get used to it,' she said, dismissing the action as an insignificant frivolity. 'I'm just taking pity on a sick, helpless man.'

  'Thank you,' he said, quietly. 'That was nice.'

  She quickly changed the subject. 'Can I get you something to eat? You haven't had anything but tea and water for the last forty-eight hours. You must be starving.'

  'No thanks, I don't think I'm up to eating anything yet. My throat is still sore.'

  'Is there anything else I can do for you?'

  'Actually…there is,' he said. 'Can you help me get to the bathroom…I really need to pee.'

  Under Megan's careful nursing, Nat slowly improved. He still slept a great deal, but when he was awake, she sat with him and kept him company during the day, chatting or reading to him. At night, under strict instruction he should not get out of bed, she left him alone

  'I don't want to come in and find you at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck,' she told him. 'That would take a bit more nursing than I can manage.'

  'You can stay over some more and make sure I don't get into trouble,' he suggested.

  'If I stay overnight again the neighbours will talk.'

  He waved his hand dismissively. 'Let them. I don't care.'

  'But I do. I have my reputation to think of. Besides, that chair will be the crippling of me.'

  He patted the bed beside him 'You could always get in here with me. There's plenty of room.' His returning sense of humour, no matter how misplaced, she regarded as a sure sign of recovery.

  Nat rubbed his hand over his scratchy face. It made a sound like coarse sandpaper. 'I need a shave,' he said, 'before I'm mistaken for the local hobo.'

  'Are you sure you're up to it?' Megan asked. 'You're still pretty weak.'

  'I'll manage if you help me, and I'm sure it'll make me feel better.'

  She agreed and brought a bowl of hot water and shaving accoutrements from the bathroom and set them out for him to use.

  'I take it I can trust you not to cut my throat?' he said.

  She had seen men shave themselves many times, but had never done it for them.'I don't know, are you willing to risk it?'

  'There's nothing to it,' he assured her.

  'Alright, on your own head be it. I hope you don't bleed too freely.'

  She draped a towel over his chest and under his chin. He dipped his hands into the bowl and wiped hot water over his beard. She shook the can of foam and sprayed a small white blob into the palm of his hand. It began to grow alarmingly. 'Is that too much?' she asked.

  'No, that's fine.' He spread the white foam across his face, working it into his whiskers. He then picked up the razor and took off the cap. 'Now,' he said, taking her hand and positioning her fingers around the razor handle. 'You hold it like this...' He put the blade to his face. 'And you just…stroke so…'

  Their hands moved together and the honed edge cut through the foam and stubble, leaving a clean trail like a harvester through a wheat field.

  'Now you do it,' he said.

  'What if I cut you?'

  'You can't. It's called a safety razor for a reason. Off you go.'

  She caressed the blade over his cheek and down his chin, matching the stroke she had made previously. 'Like this?'

  'Perfect.'

  He allowed her to move his head wherever she needed it to be as she continued removing the stubble and foam, dipping the razor into the water between passes and tipping up his chin to shave his throat.

  All the while, he watched her face closely, particularly the way her eyes moved, and he could see her confidence growing with every stroke of the blade. Soon the combination of the gentle touch of her hand on his face and his neck, the smell of her perfume, her physical closeness, and the way the tip of her tongue stroked across her lips as she concentrated, began to have a startling and disturbing effect on him. Alarmed, he focused on not reacting. He prayed she would be so intent on not slitting his jugular, that the state of his growing arousal would go unnoticed.

  When she finished, she cleaned the remnants of foam from his face with the towel. 'How's that?'

  He ran his hand over his newly naked chin and cheeks and smiled. 'Nicely done. Good job.'

  She slowly caressed her own fingertips down his smooth cheek, nodding her own approval. 'Hmm. Not bad for a first go.'

>   'How…how do I look?' It bothered him to hear a slight quiver in his voice.

  'Human again. Much better.'

  She removed the shaving materials to the bathroom, and in her absence, Nat slipped his hand under the duvet to take the measure of what she had done to him – his cock was already half-masted, his erection still developing and making its way through the opening of his pyjama bottoms. A few more minutes and she couldn't have helped but be aware of it.

  Oh, dear God, he thought. Did she see it? Did she feel it? Is it possible to die embarrassment?'

  If she had seen, or felt, anything, she stayed silent.

  As quickly as it had arrived, Nat's headache resolved. His temperature returned to normal and although still a bit unsteady on his feet after nearly a week in bed, he had recovered enough to sit in the chair.

  'I think I'm in dire need of a shower. Any chance of a helping hand? I am still a bit…weak.' He faked a cough for effect, but Megan was not fooled. She declined the invitation and left him to manage quite adequately, by himself.

  The rest of his recuperation was uneventful. For another week, under Megan's eagle eye, he spent his time sleeping, watching TV or reading, gradually rebuilding his strength…and his appetite.

  One afternoon during his convalescence, Megan answered a tuneful knocking on the kitchen door.

  'Megan Thomas?' asked the florist's deliveryman.

  'Yes,' she replied cautiously.

  'Then these are for you.' He handed her a conical green cellophane package tied up with ribbon. She stared after him, mystified, as he strode off along the path to his waiting van.