she was any kind of a mother at all, she’d love you no matter how you looked,’ Guy declared.
‘I know that. I’m sure she would. But I wanted her to be really proud of me.’
She didn’t voice her fear of rejection, the thought that her mother would have been appalled to discover that her daughter was a myopic and ugly woman with thick spectacles and straggly hair.
Tessa sighed. ‘Now I’ll have to go about looking tatty… And these trousers were going to last me for years!’
‘Here.’
A large handkerchief muffled her wet face and was passed efficiently over it. Too miserable to protest, she closed her eyes and let him dab at them, dutifully lifting her chin up so that he could do it properly. Gently his fingers spanned the curve of her jaw while he took infinite care in wiping the corners of her pouting mouth.
Which tingled. Her wet-lashed eyes snapped wide open and looked directly into his in surprise. For a moment she held her breath, mesmerised by the depth of compassion in their liquid darkness. Then he frowned and briskly attended to drying her cheeks, before stuffing his handkerchief firmly in his breast pocket. She came back to earth.
‘I must look pretty stupid.’ And she waved a deprecating hand at the broken wood imprisoning her.
There was a very long pause. ‘No. You don’t.’ Avoiding her eyes, he began carefully to clear away the debris. His strong hands snapped off the piece of wood containing the offending nail and he threw it into the huge stone hearth. ‘Time for tea,’ he said neutrally.
Before she knew it, he had put his hands under her armpits and lifted her bodily from the wreckage, setting her gently on her feet in front of him. He held her arms in support and she welcomed that.
Her huge, swimming eyes met his. ‘Sorry to howl. It’s the disappointment. I’ve been building this up in my mind, worrying, feeling excited and apprehensive at the same time…It’s such a let-down to come all this way and find she’s not here after all. Dad was so thrilled she’d contacted us.’
‘You were five when she left,’ he recalled gently, somehow knowing she wanted to talk about it.
‘I remember it as if it were yesterday. I’d never seen my father crying before,’ she said, Guy’s strong hands making her feel secure. ‘I shan’t ever forget it.’ She looked up at him helplessly. ‘He cried for days. Can you imagine what that was like?’
‘I think I can,’ he said softly.
‘It seemed like for ever to me. The neighbours fed me. I think I might have gone hungry otherwise.’
And she’d barely stopped eating from that moment on. Anxious to placate her, the neighbours had pushed sweets and food at her while her father had cried and poured bottles of whisky into himself. Scared of this odd behaviour, his strange sour smell, she’d curled up in a corner, wideeyed, and silently demolished bag after bag of sweets.
She licked her dry lips and cleared the lump in her throat The memories still sent a dagger through her heart. Her father had looked small and hurt, like a child. And she, a child herself, had run to comfort him and been pushed away. Pain lashed her heart.
‘It must have been tough for you,’ he said, his rich voice warm with sincerity.
‘Worse for Dad. Mum meant everything to him. She was his world, the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him,’ she said sadly. ‘Poor Dad. He was a different man after she left.’
Guy’s eyes flashed with recognition. ‘There are women who have the ability to make a very strong impact on men.’
‘Like your father’s mistress,’ she said sympathetically.
‘Yes.’ And then he said, ‘Some women love to wield power. They fill a man’s heart and mind and take a hold on him, smothering him as ivy twines around a tree. And in the end they kill him, one way or another. I pity your father,’ he added in a low voice. ‘I imagine he found it hard without his wife.’
‘It’s no secret. He hit the bottle a bit,’ she confessed, ‘and I’m afraid he couldn’t keep a job after Mum left. You can’t turn up on a building site all hung-over and morose—people won’t stand for it. He built crooked walls,’ she explained. And found her emotions getting the better of her again. So she repeated what her father had told her at the time. ‘One or two of the walls fell over once too often and so did he.’ But the forced humour hadn’t helped and she still felt miserable.
‘But it wasn’t a joke, was it?’ Guy said quietly, his whole demeanour encouraging her to unburden herself.
She was amazed that he should be interested. But in this cold, unwelcoming house she felt a warm swell of sympathy emanating from Guy which was very comforting, and it eased the sense of loneliness a little.
‘We muddled through. Friends helped to start with, but Dad was a bit difficult,’ she said, glossing over the Technicolor rows. ‘I suppose we must have lived in chaos for a while, till I was old enough to get things more organised. Shopping and cooking were easy.’ She managed a smile, recalling her careful budgeting. ‘I didn’t need the greatest brain on earth, thank goodness.’
Guy frowned. ‘His responsibility was to you. A father should never put his own needs before his child’s—’
She stopped him in mid-flow by jerking up her head angrily. ‘It wasn’t his fault!’ she declared hotly. ‘He was clinically depressed! He had a lot of bad luck. When I was fourteen, he had an accident on a building site. He’s in a wheelchair now. Paralysed. He hasn’t worked since. It’s made him understandably bitter about life.’
‘I’m not surprised. I apologise.’
Mollified, she nodded. ‘He adored my mother. Worshipped her. It was our one point of contact, all he ever wanted to talk about,’ she reminisced. ‘We’d sit together in the evenings and he’d tell me about the parties they’d had, how she was a magnet to people—witty, captivating, breathtakingly beautiful.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Why am I telling you this? You’ve met her. You know what she’s like.’
He looked at her helplessly, as if he wanted to tell her something. But it seemed he thought better of it, because he merely nodded. ‘I know,’ he said at last. ‘But it was your mother who broke your father’s will and catapulted him into his depression.’
‘No! No!’ She shook her head so vigorously that her hair flew everywhere. Impatiently pushing it back from her impassioned face, and trying not to acknowledge that what he’d said was partly true, she said, ‘He told me it was love that destroyed him. But it’s given him wonderful memories—memories he feeds on now he’s paralysed. Personally, I think that a man who can love that deeply is to be admired.’
‘I think your loyalty is to be admired. Or perhaps I deplore your blindness. I’m not sure,’ he said quietly. ‘But if love destroys people then it’s the wrong kind. Love should nourish, empower, allow couples to grow and reach out to others.’ In a gesture which she interpreted as compassion, his hand briefly touched her hot cheek, which was still a little sticky with tears. ‘Your mother swallowed your father whole—and he allowed that to happen. It’s clear that you think you should do your best to love your parents unreservedly, but you really should try to see them for what
