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‘I’ll ring you from the States before I come back.’
It was Lucy who ran up to him for a goodbye kiss, and Heather who had to be gently pushed. Claire’s tender heart ached for him, for, despite his controlled smile, she knew that inside he was hurt.
TWO MONTHS SLIPPED BY without Jay being able to find a suitable replacement for Mrs Roberts, and during that time Heather blossomed. She was always going to be a more vulnerable child than her own daughter, Claire thought, but now she looked forward to her father’s return, running to him eagerly, and Claire hoped that she had banished the spectre of Mrs Roberts’ threats.
October was a cold, wet month with high winds that disturbed the shaky tiles on her roof. Several came crashing down one night as she lay in bed, and she wondered how on earth she was going to pay for them to be replaced.
Jay was due home on Friday. She must remember to go up to Whitegates and turn on the central heating; he had given her a key to the house several weeks ago, but she was scrupulous about using it only when she had to. She had fallen into the habit of checking on the contents of his fridge when she knew he was due back, but she had never ventured further than the kitchen when he was not there, nor di
d she linger when she delivered Heather to him, despite his suggestions that she and Lucy stay and have a meal.
He didn’t make her feel nervous as other men did; she wasn’t frightened of him, and she didn’t know really why she was so anxious to remove herself from his vicinity. Perhaps it had something to do with their very first meeting and her determination that he would never be able to accuse her of running after him. It was, after all, the last thing she was likely to do! Her mind might be able to accept that he was a very attractive and masculine man, a man with an uncommon degree of sex appeal combined with that aura of power that women find so sexually stimulating, but she wasn’t like other women; his sexuality made her cringe. She found conversation with him stimulating and interesting, but only if she could manage to blot out his masculinity. She was glad that he wasn’t the sort of man who liked to touch. She didn’t think she could have endured that.
Mrs Vickers was opening her gate just as Claire went past with the girls on the way to school.
‘Gales forecast for tonight’ she warned Claire. ‘Hope our roofs will stand up to it.’
Claire did too. When she got back from school she saw that the row of elms on the opposite side of the road were swaying fiercely in the strong wind. All the leaves were gone now, and the branches looked starkly bleak. Winter would be early this year.
She spent the morning baking, more for the therapeutic properties of the task than for any real need to provide the girls and herself with sustenance. When she collected them from school, they went first back to the cottage, where Heather sniffed the warm scented kitchen aroma eagerly.
‘Have you made an apple pie?’ she asked Claire, surveying the fruits of the afternoon’s labours enthusiastically.
She had, using the apples from their own tree.
‘It’s Daddy’s favourite. Perhaps we could take him some.?’
On the face of it there was no real reason why they should not; Claire always made something extra when she baked which she normally took round to Mrs Vickers; the three of them on their own would certainly not get through everything she had made—but even so, she hesitated, knowing all too well the construction that Jay could place on her gift of food. However, she knew equally that it was not something she could explain to his six-year-old daughter.
Hating to wipe the happy look of pleasure from Heather’s face, she suggested instead,
‘Perhaps next time. I made this one for Mrs Vickers. It’s her favourite too,’ childishly she crossed her fingers behind her back as she mouthed the small fib, ‘and you can help me make it,’ she told Heather. ‘I’m sure your daddy would like that.’
‘I’ll help too,’ Lucy chimed in. ‘I could make him some of my gingerbread men.’
Claire stifled a grin at the thought of Jay’s expression should he be presented with these tokens of her daughter’s regard. She knew enough about him to know that he would eat the proffered gift whether he wanted it or not, but as yet Lucy’s enthusiasm for the task of baking far outweighed her skill.
An hour later, both girls raincoated and wellingtoned against the heavy rain that had started to fall, they set out for Whitegates.
As Claire opened the front door, the wind shipped it from her fingers, shrieking malevolently and making her gasp for breath. Both little girls clung firmly to her hands as they hurried down the deserted village street. Luckily the wind was behind them, otherwise Claire wasn’t sure how they would have managed to walk. It had increased tremendously in velocity since she had fetched them home from school, and the heavy, rain-sodden clouds darkening the sky promised a very unpleasant night. Already there was evidence of the storm’s hovoc in the branches that had fallen from some of the trees, reminding Claire that she would have to find someone to prune her own fruit trees.
Icy flurries of rain stung their faces; the girls’ hooded coats kept them fairly dry, but Claire’s raincoat had no hood, and one look at the weather had convinced her of the folly of trying to use her umbrella. She could feel the rain soaking into her hair, releasing its errant curl, and the walk down the country lane to Whitegates, which was normally such a pleasure, had become more of an ordeal.
The house was warm, thanks to Claire’s foresight in turning on the central heating when she had called earlier with the shopping. She made both girls strip off their wellingtons and coats in the kitchen, hanging them up to dry.
Jay’s flight should have landed by now, but the bad weather might have delayed it. She glanced at her watch and frowned. It was barely five o’clock, but already it was very dark outside.
Having checked that both girls had put on their slippers, she agreed that they could go into the sitting-room to watch television.
Despite the expensive furnishings, the house always struck Claire as being very unwelcoming. She had always been very sensitive to atmosphere, and it sometimes seemed to her that the house was rejecting its inhabitants in the same way that a child will reject those it senses do not give it love.
The kitchen was fitted with every electrical device known to man, or so it seemed; the units were undoubtedly very expensive and stylish, but Claire found the white and grey décor of the room distinctly chilling. It was not a kitchen she could ever imagine herself enjoying working in. It was too glossy and sterile, looking more like something out of a magazine advertisement than part of a home. She always felt faintly uncomfortable in it, afraid almost of leaving so much as a finger-mark on the brilliant work-tops.
What she had seen of the rest of the house was the same: sterile and cold. She often wondered who had chosen the décor, Jay or his wife. It seemed inconceivable that any woman with a small child would opt for off-white carpet and white leather furniture, but then neither could she see Jay choosing the thick white goatskin rugs in the drawing room.
White was the colour of purity; it was also the colour of snow, and that was how Claire perceived the house’s décor, cold and frigid, unwelcoming, and unliveable-in.
She turned on the oven and took out of the fridge the casserole she had brought with her earlier in the day. She didn’t normally prepare a meal for Jay, but tonight was an exception; no doubt he would be feeling both cold and tired when he did arrive.
