Clare laughed. ‘Come on, cowboy. Let’s get you home.’
The patients all called greetings to him, and Clare saw that he was touched by their good wishes. ‘Just hedging their bets in case they’re still in when I get back to work,’ he joked, but she could see he was moved.
Mary O’Brien walked them to the door. ‘See you soon, Michael,’ she said gruffly, and to everyone’s surprise, she hugged him. ‘Mind how you go, now—you’re not Superman!’
Which of course made his lips twitch into a smile.
‘Did I say something funny?’ she asked.
Michael shook his head. ‘No. Clare just told me the same thing. I will be careful. Thank you for everything, Mary, you’ve been wonderful. If you ever decide to retire and open a guest house, let me know. I’ll become a permanent resident.’
He looked at Clare.
‘OK?’ she asked him.
He nodded. ‘Yes. Time to start living again.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
CLARE was on a late on Friday followed by an early on Saturday—which, in essence, meant that she saw precious little of Michael in the first twenty-four hours that he was home.
At first he was just simply tired, and relieved to be away from the busy hospital routine which had been his life for two weeks. He slept most of the time on the day-bed in the sitting-room or on a sun lounger under a tree in the garden, and didn’t seem inclined to chat when he was awake.
When she helped him up to bed on the first night, he told her in no uncertain terms that he was getting used to the nightmares and, in the event of him having one, her presence would not be necessary.
Consequently, when she heard him cry out, she lay rigidly in her bed until she heard him moving about some time later. Then she opened the door a crack and watched as he shuffled down the stairs on his bottom to the kitchen, hopped over to the fridge with the aid of one crutch and got himself a drink. She closed the door softly before he turned round, and listened until she was satisfied that he was safely back in bed before allowing sleep to reclaim her.
Finally Saturday afternoon came, and she was able to spend the evening preparing a meal for them. He was watching television and ate his meal on his lap, barely speaking. He yawned several times, and seemed quite happy when she suggested that he might like an early night.
It was still only a quarter to ten, so she stayed downstairs after he was safely settled and watched a weepy film with a sad ending that left her feeling ragged. On her way to bed she noticed that Michael’s light was still on, so she tapped and stuck her head round the door.
‘OK?’ she asked softly.
Perhaps it was the gentle lamplight, or the sadness of the film, but he looked suddenly terribly vulnerable lying there propped up on the pillows, a book in his hand, his face grave.
‘Come here,’ he murmured.
She went in cautiously, and perched on the end of the bed.
‘I just wondered if you were all right. You seem very tired—you will tell me if you feel ill, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will—I know the risks.’ He sighed. ‘Thank you for everything you’re doing for me. I realise it isn’t easy, under the circumstances, and I know I’m not the world’s best patient, but I am grateful, Clare.’
‘Oh, Michael, you know you’re welcome. You don’t have to thank me.’
‘Yes, I do. Anyone else would have just gone.’
Like Andrew, she thought. He’d rung the hospital once or twice, and had brought Pop in to see Michael, but had left him at the door and hadn’t set foot on the ward or spoken to his brother since the row the previous weekend. Clare hadn’t seen him since he’d been back to collect his things, but she gathered from Pop that he was in London for a few days before returning to Germany.
‘Would you like me to take you to see Pop tomorrow afternoon?’ she asked him now.
He gave her a rueful grin. ‘He’s mad with me at the moment. I don’t think I can stand another telling-off. I tell you what I would love to do.’
‘What?’
He studied his hands in silence for a second. ‘Go windsurfing.’
Clare swallowed. ‘Don’t you have to wait for your beach activity leg before you can do that?’
He snorted. ‘Be realistic. It’ll never be the same again.’
‘No,’ she retorted, ‘you’ll only have to tolerate one freezing cold foot! That can only be an advantage!’
She couldn’t believe she’d said it. As she sat waiting for a hole to appear and swallow her, there was a choked sound from the other end of the bed. Startled, she looked up to find Michael chuckling. As she watched, a smile crept up his face until he was laughing, his head thrown back, tears running down his cheeks.
She laughed with him, overwhelmed with relief to hear the joyful sound. Finally he stopped laughing and shook his head ruefully.
‘Oh, Clare,’ he said weakly, wiping the tears from his eyes, his body still shaken by the occasional chuckle. ‘You’re good for me, d’you know that?’
Their eyes met and held, and the laughter faded. His face sobered, and his eyes became suddenly sad. ‘I’ll miss you when you go,’ he told her quietly.
She stood up, torn between running away and throwing herself into his arms.
She turned towards the door. ‘No, you won’t. You’ll probably throw me out in the end.’
‘Probably,’ he agreed, ‘but I’ll still miss you.’
‘I don’t have to go,’ she said, without much hope.
‘Yes, you do.’ He gave a gusty sigh. ‘Goodnight, Clare.’
‘Goodnight. Call me if you need me.’
He muttered something that she didn’t catch, and clicked off the light. She pulled the door to and went to bed, her heart still very much with him all alone in the big brass bed.
He had the nightmare again that night, and every night that followed, but she let him get on with it and he never mentioned it. Sometimes he got up, sometimes he just seemed to go back to sleep again, and gradually, as they fell into their daily routine, she learned when to talk and when to leave him in peace.
On the Sunday she took him down to see Henrietta, and he sat in the car and stared broodingly out across the water, his expression fixed. In retrospect it seemed a bad idea, but at the time she had thought it might cheer him up.
He spent Monday at the hospital in the physiotherapy department, and on Tuesday she took him in early on her way to work.
It was the big day, the day when he would get his PTB, or patella tendon-bearing prosthesis—in a word, his freedom.
He came up to the ward with her and said hello to the staff and patients. Barry Warner, particularly, had missed his company and was delighted to see him. He was starting to make excellent progress, and would soon be having physiotherapy on his left arm now that the swelling from the dislocation had gone down. His right leg was off traction, and the soft tissue injuries had healed enough for his leg to lie in the bed beside the other, covered in a light dressing. He was to have skin grafting to give better cover in one or two areas, but otherwise was well on the way to recovery, albeit slowly.
Danny was up and about on crutches, his good spirits high as usual, but he was putting his cheer to good use and entertaining the elderly patients at the other end of the ward.
Pete Sawyer had been discharged, his patella and pelvis healed and his right forearm, still immobilised in plaster, now showing signs of union.
The other patient who was now with them after two weeks in ITU with an intractable pneumonia was Alan Beedale, the patient whose foot Michael had amputated in the train. In a twist of irony he was in Michael’s old room, and Clare watched their encounter with interest.
Michael tapped on the door, swung through it and perched on the end of the bed.
‘Hi, there. How are you doing?’
Alan Beedale turned to him and his face creased in a puzzled frown.
‘Don’t I know you?’
Michael gave a wry grin. ‘Yes. I opera
ted on you in the train.’
‘That’s right—I asked about—wanted to thank you for getting me out, but they said you were off sick. Then I come up here and I hear all these rumours——’
Michael swung his left leg into the air. ‘No rumours.’
Alan Beedale drew in a sharp breath and looked back at Michael.
‘Hell—I don’t know what to say.’
‘You don’t have to say anything—it wasn’t your fault. The carriage collapsed long after you were out.’
The old girl—what happened to her?’
Michael looked down at his hands. ‘She died. I stayed with her.’
Alan nodded. ‘That’s what they said, but I didn’t believe it. Said you stayed with her and the firemen told you to get out, then the whole bloody lot came down——’
Michael stood up and smiled.
‘All water under the bridge now. I’m glad to see you’re making progress. I must go—get the leg today.’
‘Yeah—they’re coming to cast mine, I think. Let me know how you get on.’
He nodded. ‘Will do. Take care now, and do what the nurses tell you—they’re lethal with the needle if you’re disobedient!’
As he turned away with a little wave, Clare saw the depth of distress in his eyes. It was obviously all a little too close to home.
She walked to the door with him, her presence a silent support.
‘Shall I meet you for lunch?’ she asked.
He looked down at her, his face still strained. ‘Don’t know—we’ll see how it goes, eh?’
‘OK.’ She tried to smile, but she was perversely disappointed and it was a dismal effort. ‘Good luck—hope it fits all right.’
He raised one eyebrow and gave a short laugh. ‘It’d better—I’m relying on it. Thanks for the lift.’
And he turned and swung away down the corridor on his crutches, his powerful muscles bunching as he propelled himself confidently along.
She watched him out of sight and went back into the ward to kill time until she heard from him again.
He appeared at three, in jeans and trainers, still with his crutches but—unbelievably—almost walking normally.
‘Hi!’ he said with a grin. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’
‘Oh, I expect I could knock you one up—did you have lunch?’ Clare asked.
He shook his head. ‘Too busy. I don’t suppose there’s any toast?’
She smiled. ‘Not unless I make it.’
‘Pretty please?’
‘You old sweet-talker, you!’ she said, her voice a little roughened with emotion. It was wonderful to see him walking again, and she could tell at a glance that his confidence was restored, his natural masculine arrogance back in full measure. Damn it, he was almost swaggering!
‘Come into the kitchen—you’re cluttering up my ward,’ she told him firmly.
While she filled the kettle and put two pieces of bread in the toaster, he propped himself up in the corner between the wall and the worktop, folded his arms and grinned.
‘You look very pleased with yourself—how did it go?’
‘Brilliant—it’s harder than I thought, but not too bad. I’d panic without the crutches, but in a few days I probably won’t need them so much.’
‘How does it feel?’
‘The leg? Or standing up like a person again?’
‘Michael, you were always a person,’ she told him gently.
‘Mmm.’ His face lost its cocky arrogance for a moment. ‘I didn’t always feel like it, Clare. There were times—never mind. As for the leg—it feels kind of weird. Not uncomfortable, but very odd. It’s quite hard to point it in the right direction, but once I’ve got used to it I expect it’ll be easier.’
She nodded. ‘Well, the competitors in the Paralympics don’t seem to have much trouble pointing theirs in the right direction!’
He laughed, a wry chuckle definitely at his own expense. ‘Give me time, my love,’ he said drily. ‘I don’t feel quite ready for it yet.’
Her heart leapt at the endearment, and she busied herself with buttering his toast while she gave her overactive imagination a severe talking-to. It was just a figure of speech—Andrew used it, too, so it was probably an expression common in their family. In any case, it meant nothing now. She put the toast in front of him and avoided his eye.
He attacked the toast ravenously, and she made him a pot of tea and poured two cups. It was her tea-break—in fact, she had only taken a few minutes for lunch as well on the off-chance that Michael might appear—and so she felt no guilty conscience about abandoning her duties.
As a result she was with him when Ross Hamilton popped his head round the door and grinned.
‘Hi, there. I heard it was the big day. How goes it?’ he asked.
‘Hello, Ross! Fantastic—see, new leg!’ Michael waggled his artificial leg in the air.
‘There’ll be no holding you now, then,’ he said with a laugh. Then he turned to Clare. ‘I have an invitation for you two. Lizzi says would you like to join us for a barbeque this weekend—Saturday would suit us best, but if you’re working, Clare, we can make it another day.’
‘No, Saturday would be fine, if Michael hasn’t got anything else in mind?’ She glanced at him, uncertain how he would respond to this invitation now they were no longer engaged. Did Ross know? Somehow she thought not. Perhaps she ought to find time to see Lizzi in the canteen and fill her in before the weekend.
He shrugged. ‘Sounds wonderful.’
‘Good. Bring your swimming things, we’ll spend the day lying by the pool. Must go, I’ve got a list at four and I need to see my patients. Come over when you’re ready on Saturday—eleven or so? See you then.’
‘I must get on, too, I have to go back to Physio,’ Michael said, putting down his cup. ‘Thanks for the tea and toast. Can you give me a lift home?’
‘Of course—what time?’
He shrugged. ‘When you’re ready—four-fifteen?’
‘Fine. See you then.’
‘I’ll wait at the car,’ he told her, and made his way slowly but fairly confidently up the corridor, whistling softly to himself.
If he had thought it would all be plain sailing, Clare thought later in the week, he was having a severe shock. He was in the garden, practising walking without crutches. He managed fine on the straight bits, but the corners were tricky, especially turning in to the left. Time after time he lost his balance and toppled over on to the grass, swearing copiously.
Clare was glad she was out of earshot, because, judging by the dedication he was bringing to it, his language was colourful in the extreme!
At one point he hauled the leg off and hurled it into the shrubbery, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. In the end she just watched, and he staggered up on to his crutches and retrieved it with difficulty, restrapping it and completing the manoeuvre faultlessly this time.
She went out into the garden and congratulated him. ‘You did it!’ she said, smiling broadly.
‘So I should bloody well hope—I’ve practised enough times! Damn fool leg—I’m going to get one of the American ones with the flexible foot. They have a more sophisticated mechanism——’
‘Michael, you’re doing very well. It’s only been three days. You must be careful not to make your stump sore—you’ve been hammering up and down wearing a groove in the lawn for the last two hours. Now come and sit down and have a drink.’
He seemed quite happy to oblige. He was obviously hot and tired, and sank down on to the bench with a satisfied grunt.
‘Here.’ Clare handed him a tall glass of chilled white wine with a generous splash of soda, and he rolled the cold glass over his face. ‘Ahh!’ he sighed, and smiled contentedly. ‘That’s fantastic.’
‘You’re supposed to drink it!’ she said with a laugh.
‘All in good time,’ he told her, pressing the glass to his chest. ‘God, I’m hot—I must be so out of condition.’
She was me
smerised by the sight of his broad chest, the shirt hanging open to reveal the soft scatter of gold curls beaded with moisture. Her body yearned for the touch of his, the hard pressure of taut muscle against her softer flesh. Biting her lip, she dragged her eyes away and moved further along the bench.
‘Sorry, are the pheromones getting to you? I must reek,’ he apologised.
‘You hardly reek,’ she told him, suddenly conscious of the heady combination of aftershave and clean, healthy sweat. ‘I was just giving you more room, as you’re too hot.’
She glanced up and met his eyes, and knew her lie was seen and understood.
He looked away, a muscle in his jaw working as he stared out across the fields. Draining his glass at a gulp, he stood up and headed for the door.
‘I’m going to have a shower, then I think I might lie down for a while,’ he said, his voice sounding curiously strained.
She watched him go, her body taut with need, and then buried her face in her hands.
It couldn’t go on, living here with him, loving him, wanting him, and being held at arm’s length all the time. And he didn’t really need her that much any more.
She sighed. Tomorrow they were at Ross and Lizzi’s house for the day, but the next day she would start looking for a flat.
Swallowing her tears, she went into the kitchen to prepare their meal.
Saturday dawned bright and clear. Already by nine o’clock it was getting hotter, and the forecast was hot, dry and sunny. Clare swung her slender legs out of bed and pulled on a long T-shirt, then made her way quietly down to the kitchen.
Michael was sitting at the table, his foot propped up on another chair, reading a BMJ.
‘Oh,’ she said, flustered, ‘I thought you were still asleep.’
He glanced up, flicked his eyes over her from head to toe and returned his attention to the magazine. ‘No, I’ve been up for some time. The kettle’s hot.’
‘So’s the weather,’ she commented. ‘It’s going to be a scorcher. Lovely for lounging by the pool.’
‘Hmm.’
She shot him a glance. ‘What’s the matter?’
He looked up. ‘Why should anything be the matter?’
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