“Usually never. By the time I
“Is it? Do you really get over it? Or are all those little maladies waiting to join together and sock it to you?”
“Now you stop that,” he said, amused. “I’m not one of your sick donkeys.”
“Donkeys aren’t the only creatures in the world that get sick,” she pointed out. “There’s such a thing as being sick at heart, and it’s much worse than pneumonia.”
“C’mon, stop psychoanalyzing me. I’m not sick at heart or sick in any other way, and I don’t need looking after.”
The smile died from her face. “I think you do,” she said softly. “I don’t think anyone’s ever really looked after you in your life.”
He shrugged. “Liz tried. I wouldn’t let her.”
“Why?” she asked curiously.
“Because…” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that once he gave in to being cared for it could become a drug from which he’d never want to free himself. But, as so often was the case, caution intervened, and he simply said, “Because I didn’t need to be looked after.”
“But she needed to do it,” Norah pointed out. “Liz had a powerful need to care for others. I learned that about her very quickly.” She hesitated before saying, “Maybe that’s what Dad offered her that you couldn’t.”
“Nonsense,” he said shortly.
“I don’t think so. I think you don’t know how to let yourself be looked after, and you’re sick from the lack of it.”
He looked away from her, out to sea where the setting sun was turning the water red. It was at moments like this that she was most dangerous, for the idea of being lovingly cared for was suddenly more seductive than beauty, more alluring than perfume, more vital than life. The sweet warmth flowed from her in a river that threatened to engulf him and drag him down to his doom, to the place where weakness lay in wait.
“It’s time I was getting back,” he said.
To his relief she didn’t try to pursue the subject, and they talked about indifferent things on the way back.
That night he awoke shivering. He was submerged in a black misery from which there seemed no escape. He vaguely sensed that it was connected with a dream he’d been having, but he couldn’t remember a single detail of it. He only knew that he’d been in hell and that hell’s tentacles still reached out beyond sleep, threatening to pull him back. He got out of bed and went to the bathroom to splash water on his face. He remembered a file he was working on and decided to fetch it. Anything was better than going back to sleep.
Norah had worked late that evening. As soon as one job was finished, she found another one to do. She knew time was passing and the rest of the house had gone to bed, but she kept on inventing tasks, delaying the moment she knew she would soon have to face.
At last she gave up putting it off and sat down at her father’s desk and took out his papers. She’d been through his diary once already, but nothing seemed to have stuck in her brain. Now she knew she must try again, not just the diary but his next book. His publisher had called her that afternoon, gently asking if the book would have to be abandoned. But Norah resisted the idea. She wanted to see Tony’s last work published as his final memorial.
He’d finished the first draft of the manuscript, but it needed revising, and she could do that through the extensive notes he’d left-not only written notes, but the ones he’d dictated into a small machine that went everywhere with him. It had been recovered from the car and given back to her, but she’d placed it in the desk without looking at it. She’d promised herself that she’d listen when she could face it, and now she must summon up her courage.
She took out the machine and discovered that it was undamaged. She switched it on and there was Tony’s voice, cheerful, humorous, talking about the birds he’d seen a few hours before he died. She listened, her heart aching.
The diary was even more painful. The moment she opened it he seemed to be there, in the irreverent notes he’d made against every entry.
She could hear him saying it in the voice that had always seemed on the edge of a chuckle. In her young girlhood they’d been everything to each other, forging a bond that even his marriage hadn’t shaken. And Liz had been wise enough to understand that. She’d never been jealous or tried to come between them, understanding that she and Norah each held a different part of Tony’s heart, which was why they got on so well together.
And now they were both gone forever: Tony, with his booming laugh, his huge love of life, and Liz, with her beauty and dizzy charm. The home that had been so warm and happy had been ripped apart, and she would never see either of them again. Suddenly the pain that had possessed Norah’s heart for weeks leaped up to her throat, tightening it in a grip of agonizing intensity. She gasped, feeling the sobs fighting to the surface, tearing her apart. She pressed her hands to her mouth and the hot tears flooded over them. Her chest heaved painfully. She tried to cling onto some sort of control, not to make a noise in case she awoke Peter. At this moment she was the strong, safe point in his life, and the evidence of her grief would frighten him if he saw it. But there was no way she could control what was happening to her. It was like being buffeted by a whirlwind.
She’d cried when she first heard of the accident, but it hadn’t been like this. The effort to sob silently seemed to throw her body into spasms, making her clutch the desk. Only once in her life before had this happened, when she was eight and her mother had died. But then Tony had been there with his strong arms that had held her tight, shutting out fear and misery, carrying her into a world where they could love and grieve together. But Tony would never be there to comfort her again, and suddenly she was terrified that her strength wouldn’t be enough for the road ahead that was full of so many problems.
Her surroundings receded. She was only dimly aware of the door being pushed open and Gavin standing there. “What is it?” he asked. Then horror seemed to overtake him, as he saw her face. “Norah,” he stammered. “What on earth…?”
But it was clear that she couldn’t hear him any more. Her whole body was trembling uncontrollably. There was only one thing for him to do, so he did it, crossing the room quickly and putting his arms about her. A moan broke from Norah. It went on and on, not rising or falling, but intensifying until it dissolved into violent sobs. Gavin tightened his arms and pulled her head against his shoulder.
At first her body was stiff against him, but gradually he felt her relax and yield to her grief. He stroked her hair, wondering at her, wondering at himself. She’d seemed so strong, more than strong enough to stand up against grief, comfort Peter and fight himself at the same time. He’d thought of her as stiffened by a backbone of ice, but the slim body in his arms now was warm and soft, molding itself against his like an animal seeking comfort.
“Norah,” he said uncertainly, “Norah…”
But she couldn’t hear him, and he gave up trying to talk and just caressed her, stroking her hair and her wet cheeks and waiting until the storm subsided. “Norah,” he said again.
She lifted her face, streaming with tears. “I can’t-stop…” she choked.
“Then don’t try. Go on. Let it happen. You’ve held this in for too long.”
“But I-mustn’t…”
“Who says you mustn’t? You need to.” He drew her close again and held her, rocking gently back and forth while her anguish expended itself against his shoulder. After Peter’s quiet self-containment, he could almost have thanked Norah for needing him.
At last it was finished, and she sat drained. An amazing feeling of warmth and contentment pervaded her. “Are you all right now?” Gavin asked quietly.
“I think so,” she said in a shaky voice that touched his heart. She sighed. “It’s very strange…”
“What’s strange?”
“I was thinking of how Dad used to hold me when I was unhappy, and wishing he could be here to hold me now. Fancy it being you.”
“Yes, fancy.”
She drew back and rubbed a hand over her tear-streaked face. “You make a better father than I thought,” she said huskily.
“Father?”
“Taking Dad’s place just when I needed you.”
