Saving Nathaniel

by Jillian Brookes-Ward

  At the table, she carefully unwrapped the package. Inside were a dozen tightly coiled, crimson headed long-stemmed roses. A spray of tiny white flowers, commonly known as baby's breath, and large green ferns complemented the scarlet blooms perfectly.

  She put her nose to the bouquet and inhaled. Disappointingly the flowers had no fragrance, but they smelled fresh.

  Tucked to the packaging she found a small white envelope, and inside it, a card.

  'For my favourite nurse, thank you for taking such good care of me. Love, Nat.'

  She put the card in her pocket and knew exactly where to find the perfect vase.

  She was still arranging the striking bouquet when Nat ambled into the kitchen. 'Is there anything to eat?' he said. 'My stomach thinks my throat's been cut.' He sidled up to her and peered over her shoulder, inspecting the flowers. 'Very nice,' he said, with approval.

  Megan grinned at him. 'They're beautiful, Nat. How did you know I liked roses?'

  'Oooh, picked up on one or two subtle clues. Your perfume, for instance, and your hand cream, also the fact you live at Rose Cottage, and that you always choose roses for the display in the hall. And I see you found the Mackintosh rose vase.'

  ''Tis the last rose of summer, left blooming alone; all her lovely companions are faded and gone',' she quoted, as she carefully inserted the last stem into the display. Nat ran his fingers up and down the instantly recognisable stylised flower etched in the glass. Pensive sadness clouded his face.

  'Joanna bought this from the Mackintosh museum gift shop in Glasgow. It cost a fortune. She wrapped it in so much newspaper, and fretted about it all the way home in case it should get broken.'

  'She had exquisite taste.'

  He quietly cleared his throat. 'Aye, she did.'

  'Would you rather I didn't use it? If it's special to you…'

  'No, no, of course not. It…it should be used. Take the flowers home with you. Take the vase too.'

  'No. I'd rather keep them here where I can enjoy them, if that's alright with you.'

  'If that's what you want.'

  'It is. Thank you.'

  He kissed her tenderly on her cheek. 'No Meg, thank you, for looking after me so well.'

  He left her to fuss with the flowers while he rooted around in the cupboard and the fridge for a snack and a drink. With his hands full, he picked up an apple in his mouth and, resembling a suckling pig prepared for the plate, walked leisurely back to the study to watch football on TV.

  Chapter 13

  Nat didn't celebrate Christmas, which came as no surprise at all to Megan. He declared it to be over-commercialised, exploitative claptrap, and as such, there were to be no cards, no tree and no decorations, in fact no festivities of any kind. To him, it would be just another normal working day. As a result, he was reluctant to allow her to take time off to spend the holidays with Rebecca and Paul. She insisted she needed the break and eventually, to keep the peace, he relented.

  She returned to Struan after four days to find the place exactly as she'd left it – spotless. It was as if he hadn't used a single cup or plate while she'd been away.

  'It looks like you don't need me,' she said, half joking. 'Maybe I can go part time, let's say two days a week…' He looked horrified at the prospect.

  It wasn't long before she discovered why the place was so clean; the recycling box held ample evidence. He had favoured drinking over cooking and eating a proper meal, and he had managed to get through several bottles of beer and spirits.

  She made him well aware of her displeasure, particularly in light of his recovery from the flu being so recent. There followed a few days of tension between them until their normal domestic routine resumed.

  Hogmanay also passed unobserved, an event Megan imagined to be verging on blasphemous to a full blooded Scotsman, and the New Year slipped in virtually unnoticed under a thick blanket of snow.

  While waiting for hot, soapy water to fill the bowl in the sink, Megan peered out through the kitchen window, mesmerised by the large flat flakes of snow floating lazily down from loaded clouds, to add to the already considerable accumulation.

  A robin attracted her attention as he paid a visit to the bird table, which she dressed without fail every morning. His chirpy appearance and cocksure attitude made her smile. She watched him as he ate his fill of her offerings, dried mealworms and wholemeal bread, and then satisfied, fly away. Once he had vacated the table, the other birds felt brave enough to approach it. That beautiful little bird, she had observed, was a greedy, red-breasted bully.

  She turned off the tap and plunged her hands into the water. Immediately she felt a sharp stab in the fleshy part at the base of her left thumb. She withdrew her hand from the water and red, as bright as the robin's chest, began to mingle with the white froth of the suds.

  'Oh, crap! No!' she groaned and turned on the cold tap, running the water over her hand. The foam dispersed under the flow, revealing both the extent and the cause of the injury. She had sliced herself on a submerged paring knife. She remembered dropping it into the bowl just before she filled it.

  The cut was not deep, but bled freely, and the diluted blood ran down her wrist and dripped to the floor. She reached for a tea towel and pressed it hard against the wound, needing not only to stem the flow of blood, but to hide it from view.

  Blood or vomit, or any other bodily fluid, presented her with no problem, so long as it belonged to someone else. When it came to her own, it was a totally different matter. She knew what was coming. Her head began to feel light and a queasiness gnawed at her stomach. Closing her eyes she willed it away. It stubbornly refused to go.

  When the buzzing started in her ears, a feeling of intense cold washed over her. Her legs turned to water and could no longer hold her. She scrabbled at the worktop to stop herself falling. Yet, she didn't fall; she was being held up, and through the drone in her ears, she heard Nat's muffled, 'Whoa! I've got you.'

  By pure happenstance, he had been crossing the hallway, on his way upstairs. He glanced through the open kitchen door to see Megan at the sink, ghostly white and swaying on her feet. He was halfway to her when her legs buckled. He lurched forward to grab her as she sank toward the tiles. If she had hit her head on them, she would very likely have fractured her skull.

  She felt hands take hold of her from behind and manoeuvre her until her backside hit something soft. She sat, and allowed the back of her head to be pushed, bending her far forwards until, through vision fogged at the edges, she could see her feet. Her injured hand was taken from her and she felt pressure against the cut. The stinging, burning pain was exquisite. The voice spoke again. 'That should do for a while.'

  Her head slowly began to clear and she regained her senses, to find herself sitting on a kitchen chair, her head between her knees and seeing a pair of brown carpet slippers that did not belong to her. She sat up slowly and took a deep cleansing breath.

  Nat watched her with deep concern etched on his face. Her white wrist under his hand felt as cold as marble. 'Take it easy, Meg,' he said. 'Don't make any sudden moves.'

  She nodded and looked at her injured hand, wrapped tightly in a large white handkerchief, and tied with a neat knot at the wrist. It was an effective temporary dressing; very little blood showed through the fabric.

  'I'm better, thanks,' she smiled weakly.

  'You don't look it. You're as white as a sheet.'

  'I'm not good with blood,' she explained. 'Especially my own.'

  'Who is?' He directed her attention to her hand. 'You might need to get that looked at. Get your coat and I'll run you down to the medical centre.'

  She shook her head. 'No, there's no need for that. It's not that bad; just a nick. I'll stick a BandAid on it and it'll be fine. Don't fuss.'

  'I want to fuss. I don't often get the chance to.' He crossed the room, opened a drawer and pulled out a box bearing a red cross and the words 'First Aid'. 'There must be some kind of a jinx,' he said.

  'What do you
mean?'

  'Two housekeepers injured within a few months. You don't have any other sisters for me to have a go at, do you?'

  He came back to his seat and opened the box, pulling out a packaged dressing square and a roll of gauze bandage. He took her hand in his again and began to undo the knot at her wrist. A single drop of watery red oozed from the edge of the cut, and he tenderly wiped it away with the handkerchief.

  He examined the wound closely. 'Hmm. I think you're right, it's not actually very deep. I don't think it will need stitches. You were lucky.' She refused to look.

  He opened the package and applied the small, white square to the wound. She winced. 'Am I hurting you?' he said. 'Tell me if I do.'

  'Not at all,' she lied. It did hurt. It burned and throbbed with pain out of all proportion to the severity of the injury. Not that she would admit to it; he was trying his best.

  He unwrapped the gauze bandage and applied it carefully, once around her wrist and then several times around the base of her thumb, securing the gauze square within the layers. Every move was done with utmost care, so as to not cause further discomfort. He tied the ends of the bandage neatly at her wrist. All the while she watched his face; it was a study in concentration. He glanced up to see her watching him, and flashed her a small smile. She returned it, self-conscious at having been caught observing him so closely.

  'There…how's that?' he asked.

  She held up her hand and examined his handiwork. 'That's perfect, thank you…and no.'

  'No?'

  'No other sisters. You're stuck with me for the duration I'm afraid.'

  They looked at each other for a moment, eye to eye. 'Good,' he mimed.

  He insisted she sit quietly for a while, since he thought she still looked pale. He made coffee for them both and they sat, drinking and chatting until her normal colour returned and she felt better. He put he dirty mugs in the dishwasher, along with the cutlery from the now cold bowl, and closed the door with a flourish.

  'Use it,' he instructed, drying his hands. 'That's what it's for. I don't want you cutting yourself any more.'

  'It's expensive and wasteful when there's only the two of us,' she argued. 'It's more economical to use the sink.'

  'Not when you're paying in blood, it's not. And I'm not a pauper yet. I think I can stretch to running it once a day.'

  He emptied the water from the bowl into the sink. After a moment spent watching it, he frowned. 'Hmm,' he muttered.

  'What's the matter?'

  'The water's not going down,' he said.

  Megan went over to see. 'It looks like the trap's blocked. You need to clean it out.'

  The expression on his face told her she may as well have been speaking Martian. She opened the cupboard under the sink and indicated the plastic pipework within.

  'See the bendy thing there?' She pointed at a U shaped piece. 'That's the trap. You need to take it off and clean it out.'

  He shook his head, his mouth twisted in disgust. 'No thanks. I'll call a plumber. Where's the phonebook?'

  'Don't be ridiculous! You don't need a plumber. It's easy…even I could do it.'

  He took a step back and spread his hands. 'Please…be my guest.'

  Rummaging through the cupboard, she found what she had been looking for, a pair of bright pink rubber gloves. As she eased them over her newly bandaged hand, she muttered under her breath. At one point, Nat was certain he heard the words, 'Clueless waste of space'.

  Working through the throbbing pain she proceeded to deftly disassemble the pipework, catching the run-off water in the bowl. The trap was indeed blocked with sundry detritus - cold solidified fat, tea leaves and other unidentifiable horrors, which she scraped onto a sheet of newspaper. After rinsing the trap clean in the run-off water, she reassembled it.

  Nat watched the whole operation from the safety of a kitchen chair, clearly impressed. 'How'd you learn to do that?'

  'I lived with men…remember?' she said with sarcasm. 'When was the last time this was cleaned?'

  He shook his head and shrugged. 'I don't know, years probably. You'll have to ask Rebecca.'

  She started to wrap the unappealing, smelly muck in the newspaper, ready for disposal, when something deep within it glinted, catching her eye.

  'Hello, what do we have here?' she said, poking about in the goo with a knife. She carefully extracted the mysterious object.

  It was a ring; a small gold band set with bright orange stones she identified as fire opals. 'Ooh, treasure!' she declared, and rinsed it under the tap. She dried it and held it up. It caught the light and sparkled. She held it out for Nat to see.

  'Look what I found. Is it one of Joanna's?'

  'Aye, it is.' He took the ring from her. 'It was one of her favourites…I remember when she lost it…she was distraught.' He ran his finger along the faceted stones. 'It was in there all the time?'

  'It must have been. If you cleaned your sink a bit more often, you would have found it sooner.'

  'Thank you,' he said absently, closing his hand around the ring and clutching it tightly. He got to his feet. 'Excuse me.'

  He strode quickly from the kitchen and up the stairs, leaving Megan to finish cleaning up.

  It took her nearly half an hour to finish cleaning out the trap, reassemble it and clean and bleach the sink. Nat had still not returned. Under the pretext of having to replace toilet rolls, she too went upstairs.

  Without making a sound, she crossed the landing to Nat's open bedroom. He was sitting on the floor, surrounded by an assortment of boxes, and the wardrobe where he still kept all Joanna's things, stood open.

  She lingered in the doorway, watching as he leafed through a photograph album. When he sensed her observing him, he looked around to her with damp, red eyes. A small, sad smile, and the merest nod of his head, silently invited her to join him.

  She slipped off her shoes and padded across the rich cream carpet to his side, placed her hand on the nape of his neck, and knelt down beside him. Joanna's jewellery case stood open by his side, the fire opal ring now filling a long vacant slot in the ring holder.

  Nat had a heavy, white, leather-bound album clutched against his chest. He sniffed and wiped his eyes. 'Our wedding photos,' he said. 'It's been a long time since I've looked at them. You finding the ring just reminded me.'

  'Can I see?' She stroked her bandaged hand across his shoulder. 'I'd really like to.'

  He opened the book and drew back the sheets of tissue paper protecting the pictures. The first photograph had been taken outside a picturesque church on a bright, sunny day. Joanna was a vision of loveliness in a long white dress finished with lace and pearls and a wide, tartan sash. Her hair, piled high on her head, had been decorated with small, white flowers, and she carried a magnificent bouquet of red and white roses.

  Nat was equally resplendent in a full dress kilt of matching tartan, complete with sporran. They were both smiling broadly, and the way they were looking at each other made it obvious to even the most casual observer that they were a couple deeply in love.

  'You both look absolutely stunning,' Megan said. 'That outfit really suits you. Nice knees.'

  Nat smiled. 'Joanna was so beautiful…so happy.' He turned the pages, taking his time as he pointed out all the members of his family; his parents, his brothers and sister, and his numerous nephews and nieces. He had an anecdote to go with each one. He passed casually over Joanna's family, admitting he couldn't remember all their names, but as he was not in touch with them any more, it didn't really matter.

  Megan listened attentively, and every now and then, as Nat reminisced, she would move her hand over the soft cotton of his shirt in a small, caressing arc so that he could take comfort from her warm, light touch and quiet presence.

  He took out another album, one filled with photographs either of himself, or just Joanna, or more often, the two of them together.

  'How did you meet Joanna?' Megan asked.

  'Erm…' He scratched his eyebrow with his th
umbnail. 'In the park near my parents' home in Edinburgh. I was jogging…'

  Megan's eyebrows rose. 'You... jogged?'

  'Aye,' he said with bland innocence. 'I worked hard and played hard. Jogging helped me relax.' A smile touched his lips as he recalled the meeting. 'She was on the same path, coming towards me, being walked by her dog. We came together, and as we passed, our eyes met and we smiled…and the vicious brute went for me. I thought it was going to maul me. I panicked, managed to trip over my own shoes and fell flat on the tarmac at her feet. I took a lump out of my elbow. See.' He presented his right elbow with its small, round scar. 'She gave me some first aid with tissues from her bag and tied it up with a hankie.'

  'Like you just did for me?'

  'Aye, much the same. I saw her again a couple of days later; same park; same path; same dog. We got to chatting, she apologised for her dog's behaviour and I asked her out for a drink to thank her for her kindness. The rest, as they say, is history.'

  Megan sighed softly. 'Oh, how romantic. Just like out of a film.'

  When he had exhausted all the albums in his collection, she helped him pack them away in the boxes and back into the wardrobe. 'I haven't had a particularly interesting life,' he said, closing the door on them. 'I hope you weren't too bored.'

  'Not at all, I love looking at photos. It was a pleasure to see them. Thank you for sharing.'

  He sighed, wistfully. 'It all seems such a long time ago. I'd forgotten so much…' He appeared to be on the edge of withdrawing again.

  'Are you alright?' she asked, pulling him out of his reverie.

  He smiled and nodded and rubbed at his eyes. 'Aye, I'm fine.'

  She picked up her shoes. 'Are you coming back downstairs?'

  'Aye, I'll be down in a minute.'

  'If you're not, I'll come back up here and get you,' she threatened.

  'I'll be down, I promise,' he said, and gave her an agreeable smile.

  'Now, that's something you can wear more often.'

  'What's that?'

  'A smile,' she said, as she trotted down the stairs. 'That really suits you too.'