Not Just for Christmas Ch. 10-13

"Want to try?" he asked Siobhán, and she nodded with a smile. She took the spoon and bowl and fed her mother. When the bowl was empty, he went and filled it again. Then the procedure was repeated.

"Put the TV on," he said, after the second bowl was consumed. "Anything to stimulate her."

He sat and held her hand, massaging it gently. By nine her eyelids were dropping. He remembered it was past time for the younger ones to get ready for bed. Siobhán came and sat with Claire while he followed them up.

They took care of themselves, though he checked they had washed and had cleaned their teeth. Then they clamoured for a story read in parts, so they read one together. It was good to hear some giggling from them after the shock they'd got from seeing their mother.

He brought them down to kiss Claire goodnight, and noticed more of a reaction. She smiled. However, he had to sit with Ryan until he slept: the boy was more upset than the others.

"Will you be here in the morning?" Ryan had asked and he reassured him that he would be, and the child snuggled down.

He cleared the kitchen, and Siobhán got out the breakfast things before hugging him and, after doing the same to Claire, went off to do some homework.

He went upstairs to Claire's bedroom and scouted round for her night attire. There was nothing in or on the bed. Siobhán heard him and came in.

"Mum usually sleeps in a pair of knickers," she said, "but I think there's a nightshirt in this drawer. Ah, yes!" She pulled a semi transparent, rather flimsy garment out. It would have to do.

"Call me if you need help with Mum," she said as she left the room.

He went down and turned off the TV, did the rounds of the doors and windows as best he could, and then went back to Claire.

"Come on Claire," he said, taking her hands and pulling gently.

She stirred as if waking, and stood. He walked backwards holding her hands, and she followed though her eyes did not look as if they were seeing anything. They ascended the stairs together and he led her into the bedroom.

"Time to get ready for bed, Hen," he said, and sat her down. She was wearing a tee shirt and skirt, and he easily pulled the shirt over her head and reached behind her and unclasped her bra. Her breasts were as beautifully shaped as they were when he had last seen them, though the scars showed how many times Gary had jabbed at her chest and stomach.

However he had no time to stand in rapt admiration, or even horror at the injuries. He put on the nightshirt, and put her arms through the holes. He stood her up and unfastened and unzipped the skirt, pulling it down her legs and after it her tights. He left her knickers on.

All this happened in silence and she allowed it all as a young child would, giving the minimum of help. Next he took her hands and walked her to the bathroom. There would be no washing, but she needed to use the toilet before bed. He walked her to the bowl, reached under her nightie and pulled down her briefs to her knees, before hitching the nightie up and sitting her down.

She obligingly performed, and he took a piece of tissue, putting it in her right hand. She wiped herself automatically and having completed that, stood up by herself. He pulled up her panties, took one hand and they walked back to the bedroom. He pulled back the duvet and she sat down and then lay down.

"Mike?" The voice was tired and emotionless but he was shocked by its suddenness. "What are you doing here?"

The question was not in the least defensive; it was merely a quest for understanding. A wave of relief swept over him: she was recovering.

"To look after you," was all he said as he pulled the duvet over her and stroked her hair. "Goodnight."

She made a little contented noise and was asleep immediately. Now he had to find somewhere to sleep. It was a three bedroom house, and each room was occupied. So it was the sofa for him. Luckily that September night was very mild; it rained most of the night. He remembered he had a coat in the car and wore it. It was not comfortable but he managed to drop off after a good deal of tossing and turning.

Needless to say, he woke up very early, about six. There was no point in lying there, it was not at all comfortable. So he got up and washed, feeling filthy in yesterday's clothes. No shaving either so he looked really rough. He knew the children were to be woken at about seven from their life at his house, so he made tea and took some to Siobhán's room, where he woke her.

She opened her eyes in surprise, then she understood it was he, and smiled broadly. Then she realised why he was there and her face clouded.

"Mum's asleep," he said to ease her mind. "She spoke to me last night. I think we'll let her sleep."

He woke the younger children and left them to dress. He knew he could trust them to wash and brush their teeth. He warned them to be quiet to let their mother sleep. There was cereal and he made some toast to give them a little extra. When Siobhán came down, he sent her next door to ask Lucy to sit with Claire until he returned from taking the younger children to school. Siobhán would leave for school later, after he had gone but before he returned.

After dropping the children off, he called at the office, went home and changed, showered and shaved, and feeling better, returned to the house. Claire was still asleep. He thanked Lucy and settled in a bedroom chair to wait for her to wake.

At eleven he went downstairs and made some tea, bringing up two mugs, he sat on the bed and gently stroked her cheek. She gradually came to. Her eyes opened. She looked at him for a long while as if trying to make sense.

"Mike?" She asked and shut her eyes.

"Yes," he said quietly. "It's me."

"Er, why?" she looked puzzled, and her eyes, opening, searched his face. Once again she shut them.

"You've been taken ill," he said. "Do you remember anything about yesterday?"

She was quiet for a while, her brow furrowed. "Did I take the children to school?"

"Yes, you did."

"I don't remember anything else."

"No, you had a little breakdown. You left us for a while."

"The children?" she started up, only to fall back again.

"Siobhán found you at home. She phoned me. I got them and brought them home. Made the evening meal, and some soup for you. Siobhán fed you. I put you to bed. I took the children to school this morning, and I'll collect them this afternoon. OK?"

She nodded and promptly fell asleep again, her tea not drunk. He took it away.

An hour later he made beans on toast and yet another mug of tea, and again awoke her.

"Come on," he said as she opened her eyes. "Time for lunch. Sit up."

She did so and took the tray. He was gratified that she ate the whole meal and drank the tea.

"More?" he asked.

"Tea?" she said, and he brought it to her, to find her in tears.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"It's you," she said. "Why are you doing all this for me, after..." she lapsed into silence.

"Not now," he said gently. "You had a bad reaction to all that's happened. I don't want a repeat of that. Just accept it that I'm here, and I'm here to help you get better and to look after the children."

"But--"

"No, Claire." He was firm. "Not now. Just relax. I'm not going anywhere until you're well enough to fend for yourself. You need rest and peace. When you're better, we can talk if you want to. Can I get you anything else?"

She shook her head, smiling bleakly through her tears. He offered a tissue and she took it gratefully and wiped her cheeks. He smiled and went downstairs to eat his own rather over-cooled lunch.

There was a knock at the front door. He opened the door. There stood Bob.

"Oh," Bob said. "What are you doing here?"

"I might ask the same of you," Mike answered.

"I've come to see Claire. Let me in."

"Sorry Bob," Mike said quietly. "She's not at all well and won't be seeing visitors for a while."

"Rubbish!" he blustered. "I came round yesterday and she was out. Now let me in to see my woman."

"Yesterday," Mike said, exuding patience, "she was at home and too ill to move. As to whether she's 'your woman', I would have to ask her about that."

"Listen you," he began to raise his voice. "We've been having an affair for weeks. She loves me and I demand to see her."

"I note that you say she loves you," Mike said grimly. "I notice also that you say nothing about loving her. If you loved her you would go away and come back on Monday, when she should be feeling better, and you wouldn't be shouting as you are now. She needs her sleep."

"I don't believe you," his voice was more strident. "Let me see her, she'll tell you how much she needs me."

"Listen, toe-rag," Mike said losing patience. "Don't you think she'd have heard you by now if she was awake? If she weren't so ill, she'd be down here to hug and kiss you, if what you say is true. Personally I couldn't care less whether you believe me or not. Until Claire says so you have no right to enter this house."

"Neither have you!" he smiled at that, and at least he was quieter.

"Well, Bob," Mike said. "Since I am the children's legal guardian it is my duty to care for them while Claire is unwell. Why don't you do as I ask and come back on Monday? You're not getting in now."

He stopped. He looked uncertain. He muttered something and walked away. Mike shut the door.

When Mike returned upstairs she was again asleep. He sat on the hard bedside chair and looked at her. Her face was peaceful and relaxed. The scar was still quite livid, and the lips had dropped a little at that side, but for all that she was beautiful to his eyes, if no longer perfectly pretty.

Once again he thought back over the past weeks. He could see why she found her disfigurement difficult to bear, and understood now the part played knowingly and unknowingly by the various people who visited her. He still wondered in view of her relationship with Bob whether it was love that prompted her to sever relations with him, or the quest for a more varied sex-life.

"If you don't love her to bits, why are you so wound up about her?" Tom had said that night. Hmm, food for thought.

Chapter Twelve

Mike woke her mid-afternoon as he was leaving to pick up the children. She told him where the house keys were, and he took them with him, though he assumed Siobhán would be in before he got back.

Claire had come downstairs when he returned and Siobhán was at home, sitting with her. The two children ran to her for hugs and she talked with them about their day, though she still sounded weak. In the meantime he prepared dinner. Claire came to the table and ate with them, crowded round the table, though she was already showing signs of tiredness. In spite of that she watched TV, the children having gone off to their rooms. He washed up and cleaned the kitchen; being Friday there was no need to set out breakfast for the next day.

Then he sat with Claire and tried to seem interested in the TV programme. She was obviously too tired to talk, so he exercised patience. The time would come the next day, Saturday.

By ten, it was clear that Claire was ready for bed.

"Time for bed," she said.

She stood and began to make her way to the stairs. Then she stopped, "Mike, where did you sleep last night?"

"On the sofa," he replied, half expecting an invitation to share her bed.

"Oh, it's so uncomfortable," she said. "Look, I'm feeling much better. Why don't you go home and sleep in your bed?"

"OK," he said with a certain feeling of disappointment, "I'll be back early tomorrow before the children are up."

"There's no need to come back," she said. "I feel much better. I can cope."

He stood up and walked to the front door.

"I see," he said irritably. "I'm no longer of any use, so I'm better out of your way. Back to where we were, no contact. Wednesday night you were desperate to talk. Not any more it seems. By the way, your boyfriend Bob was here while you were asleep. The one you've been having the affair with, he tells me. You'll need me out of the way, won't you?"

At that he stalked out. He heard her behind him.

"Mike, please," she cried. "Don't--"

But he was already outside and getting into the car. He was half way home when his mobile rang. He let it ring as he was driving. It rang twice more before he got home. Once indoors he pressed voicemail. The first call was from Claire she was crying.

"Mike," she cried. "I didn't mean it like that. I don't want you to keep away. I do want to talk. Please come back tomorrow."

The next was from Siobhán. "Dad, why are you being so horrid to Mum? I've put her to bed. She's very upset. She was only trying to get you to rest. Ring or come round tomorrow."

The third was again from Claire, but she said nothing, just hung up.

Damn! he thought. I over-reacted again. What's wrong with me?

He dialled Claire's landline. Siobhán answered.

"Siobhán," he said quickly, "Is Mum all right? She's not relapsed?"

"No," she replied angrily. "No thanks to you!"

"Enough of that, Siobhán!" he snapped. "Your mother insulted me. If she's still awake tell her I'll be round tomorrow. I've had enough of being messed around. Tell her that as well. Good night!"

He disconnected.

He got out the whisky, an Islay Malt - he needed the strong peaty flavour to batter him into a better frame of mind. By the time he'd finished he had been battered rather into numbness, and staggered off to his bed. As he sank into its softness he was grateful that Claire had sent him home. The gratitude did not last long: he was asleep in seconds.

He woke late. Yes, he had a headache, yes, he felt nauseous. Consequences are a bitch! No one to blame but himself. How much louder the phone is at such times! He groaned and lifted the receiver.

"Mike?" said Claire.

"Hello," he said.

"Are you all right? You sound hoarse."

"I've just woken up," he said, somewhat lacking in enthusiasm.

"Mike," she said and she sounded worried, "It's Saturday--"

"Yes, I know."

"No listen, I'd forgotten. The children are at home."

"So you want to put off our talk yet again?" he said, his anger rising despite the fact he felt that the last thing he wanted to do was talk to anyone at that moment.

"No," she said. She was getting testy. "This house is so small there's nowhere quiet here; could I bring them over to you?"

"Are you well enough to drive?" he asked, suddenly worried.

"Yes. All that sleeping seems to have helped. How about this afternoon, about three?"

He calculated that it gave him three hours to sober up.

"OK."

They arrived, and the children had clearly been told to make themselves scarce. This was easy for them, since they still had plenty of their own things in the house to keep them occupied. He led Claire to the study, where they sat in two leather armchairs with a coffee table in between them.

"Tea?" he asked.

"No thanks, Mike," she said seriously. "Let's not delay any further."

"OK," he said. "Can I start by apologising for some of the things I said to you on Wednesday night? You finished with me and had every right to sleep with Bob. It is hard for me to see it, knowing what sort of a man he is, but you are not in any way responsible to me."

"But I don't understand? Sleep with Bob?"

"Don't play games, Claire," he said trying to control his rising ire, "Dylan knows you've been having sex with him. When Bob came to the house, he told me you'd been sleeping with him during the day."

She bridled at that, and he could see her anger starting to rise in her turn, "I don't care what anyone says, I've never had sex with that man."

"So what's all this kissing fondly at the front door when he's been leaving after your sessions with him? You were seen."

She looked puzzled. "Have you been spying on me? God, how low can you get!"

"I've more important things to do during the day, I run a business," he snapped. "I'm starting to see your true opinion of me. I'm the low life you had to put up with all those months and had to show gratitude to. I bet you were glad to get the opportunity to rid yourself of me. And you did that all right. You cut me right out of your life, No opportunity for me to talk to you.

"I left a message on your answer phone congratulating you on your Decree Absolute, but you wouldn't answer me, would you? I sent you emails telling you how much I missed you and loved you. I'll bet you junked them without reading them. Even the letter I sent you detailing how much I loved you and setting out what I'd do for you even though you were dumping me, you didn't dignify with an answer.

"Anyone would think I was the one who'd nearly killed you. You certainly showed all the hatred for me that you could. Then, when I do see you for the first time, you're with Bob. Why should I believe you over him?"

He sat back after his tirade. She looked shocked.

"I didn't realise," she stammered.

"You've no idea how much your hatred of me destroyed me. You wouldn't let me talk to you."

"I never hated you!" her eyes flashed; her voice was raised. "I did it for your own good!"

"No," he retorted, "that can't be true. To say that insults me even more deeply. How dare you be so patronising? As if I were a small child!

"How could you think I am so shallow that all I care about is your appearance? You said I would only stay with you out of loyalty. What of your loyalty? Given the choice of believing me, or three people you didn't know, you chose them! It wasn't even a proper choice, I got no chance to plead my case."

"I didn't know they were setting me up!" she cried. She was becoming distressed.

"You didn't even give me a chance to prove them wrong, and I could have proved them wrong." He too was getting out of control.

"You could?" she was startled. "How?"

"Where did I go in the evenings while you were living here, twice a week?"

"You went out visiting friends."

"True," he replied. "You never asked who my friends were."

He got up and went to his photo cupboard, and extracted an album. He went round to her chair and sat on the arm.

"Here. These are my friends. Some have died."

He showed her a group photo taken the previous autumn. "These are some people with severe mental or physical disabilities. They are my friends. I visit them every week if I can."

He showed her one photo of Peter. He had incurable cancer as well as being paraplegic. The photo was taken two days before he died and showed how emaciated he was. He had been moved to a hospice and his family took the photo of Peter and Mike. Mike was holding him, and Peter was smiling up at him. He explained it.

"So I can't bear to see people with disabilities? I can't deal with disfigurement? I can't love you as you are? I love these people and they love me!"

Claire sat perfectly still. She turned the pages. When she had seen it all, many photos of Mike with friends who in the eyes of the world were ugly or even repulsive, as well as others who looked normal but had severely reduced mental ages, she closed the book. Mike moved back to his chair.

"Mike, I'm very sorry," she said quietly. "Looking back, I don't understand why I did it, why I was so eager to go along with what they said. I felt so ugly and they just harped on about how you couldn't stand ugliness in any form. Then Tracy and Bob both said you were practically back with Cheryl."

"But you didn't ask me!" he pointed out in exasperation. "You obviously thought I would lie to you. You see how low your opinion of my character is?"

"But it isn't! It isn't!" she cried. "I loved you, I wanted you to be happy. I didn't think you could be happy with me. You deserved better than me. Please believe me Mike!"

"You don't understand do you?" he said. "It's not a question of what I deserve, it's a question of how much you think I love you, or don't. I protested my love over and over, and you ignored me. You shut me out, Claire."