Tara (60 page)

Mother was forgotten in the beauty of the service.

Candles beneath each of the windows cast a flickering yellow light on to the congregation; the air was rich with the perfume of pine and flowers. Amy knew every single one of the people there. Farmers, shopkeepers, girls from the bank and hairdresser's. Old people clutching their walking sticks, too bent to kneel; young couples who rarely came to church.

Her hand found Greg's during 'Oh, Come all ye Faithful', and a tear of happiness trickled down her cheek as his fingers entwined hers. She turned her head slightly so she could look at him, and another tear slipped out.

His pale brown eyes saw all the injustice, the hurt and pain in people's lives, and in his own way he did his best to alleviate it. Those square, practical hands could bring a baby into the world, stitch up a wound, calm a fractious child. He cared for every one of his patients, not just their health but their dreams and aspirations, too.

'Time to go!' Greg's voice startled her; she'd been so wrapped up in her thoughts she hadn't noticed people were leaving. 'You look miles away.'

'I was thinking about you.'

They shook hands with the vicar, wished a merry Christmas to dozens of people and made their way down towards the gate.

Greg stopped her, turning her towards him. The night sky was studded with stars, a frost in the air turning their breath to smoke. Old graves shone white against the dark grass, the huge yew tree was lit up by the light from the church porch, and all around them people called out to one another as they made their way home.

'Promise me you'll marry me soon?' he said, as if sensing she wouldn't go back on a promise made here by the church. 'I can't wait any longer.'

Amy tried to speak, the same tired old excuses surging around in her head.

He put his finger to her lips and stopped them. 'I need you, Amy,' he said softly. 'I want you in my bed, night after night. I want to start the day with you beside me, to share everything I have. We can't go on snatching odd moments, it cheapens what we feel for one another.'

'I know.' Amy sighed. 'I come home from your house glowing because it's been so wonderful, then Mother makes one of her sharp comments and I could kill her.'

'Well, it's crossed my mind to hire an assassin more than once.' Greg chuckled.

His humour decided her. He never complained about Mabel, he always saw things from others' view. It was time.

'Well?' He raised one eyebrow, his hand coming up to stroke her cold cheek.

'Yes, Greg. As soon as you can get the banns read.'

He kissed her.

She heard people chuckling, she felt the wind in the trees, the frost creeping across the grass, and knew that by lunch-time tomorrow this would be discussed in every house in the village. But all that mattered was his warm lips on hers, and the joy in both their hearts.

'Oh, Greg, I can't.' She pulled at his hand as he led her up the High Street towards his house, rather than left to the farm. 'Mother will be waiting!'

'You've got to stay with me tonight.' His eyes implored her. 'Mabel's gone to bed, the turkey's in the slow oven. She won't even know you haven't been there if you get back before she gets up.'

'But what if –'

Greg cut her short. 'She's not ninety, she can look after herself. You know as well as I do she sleeps like a log.'

Amy grinned impishly. 'You've succeeded in tempting me. You'd better make it worth my while staying.'

Acacia House looked festive. Greg had left the lantern on above the front door and it shone down on a red-ribboned holly wreath. Their feet scrunched on the gravel drive and Winston barked out a welcome from inside.

'I'm going to make love to you till you scream for mercy,' he whispered, bending his head to nuzzle at her neck. 'The neighbours will hear you shouting and think I'm treating a cow in labour in my surgery.'

'Is that what I sound like?' she asked as they went in. Winston came bounding up, all drooling tongue and wagging tail, demanding to be petted.

'No, you make beautiful sexy moans that make me feel like a god,' Greg pushed the dog away with one leg. 'Back to your basket Winston!'

Greg unfastened Amy's coat and slid his hands in to cup her small breasts. 'Oh, Amy, this is all I could think of while we were in church, imagining your nipples beneath my fingers and sliding my hands up your thighs.'

'Fancy thinking such things in God's house,' she reproved him, moving away towards the sitting room. 'You ought to be drummed out of the parish!'

'I think it's a shame women stopped wearing stockings.' Greg hung up their coats on the hall stand, then followed her. 'Nothing could beat that feeling of sliding your hand up sheer nylon, then suddenly finding soft flesh.'

Amy picked up the poker and prodded the fire back to life.

'You're a very surprising man,' she said, glancing back over her shoulder at him. He was getting some glasses out of the cabinet for drinks. 'I wouldn't have put you down as a sensual type.'

'I think most people are, with the right partner.' He added tonic to the gin, then went towards the kitchen to get ice. 'I didn't get so many erotic thoughts till you came along. You set me off,' he called back.

Amy smiled and sat down, holding out her hands to the blaze. Winston was creeping into the room, head down because he sensed he wasn't welcome. Amy smiled, she knew that if she caught his eye he'd bound across. She could hear Greg banging an ice tray on the table in the kitchen and knew he would come back with a plate of something nice to nibble on, too. This domesticity in a man was something she still found strange, in fact she found it hard not to wait hand and foot on everyone, she'd done it for so long.

'I wonder if Harry makes snacks for Tara?' she called out.

Greg came in with a tray of sandwiches and mince pies. 'Sorry, Winston.' He ordered him out and kicked the door shut behind him. 'There's a time for dogs, but this isn't one of them.'

He put the tray down on a coffee table, added some ice to her drink, put on a Frank Sinatra record, then sat down beside her.

'Still dwelling on them?' he asked. Amy had told him something of the row before they left for church.

She nodded and smiled, faintly embarrassed that she wasn't only thinking of him.

'Want my real opinion?' he asked.

'Yes, please.'

'You can't let Tara go. It isn't about whether Harry is right or wrong, it's about you being unable to set her free. You've never stopped blaming yourself for the unhappiness your children had in London. Somehow you think if you can keep Tara close to your side she'll never be unhappy again.'

Amy stared in surprise. It was rare for Greg to voice an opinion about Tara or Mabel, though when he did he was usually right.

'You can't make people happy by locking them away from harm.' Greg smiled, taking her hand in his. 'They have to experience grief to appreciate joy. The two things go hand in hand, I'm afraid. Do you think we could be so happy together if we hadn't both had bad experiences in the past?'

There had been many people to tell her about Greg's past. He hadn't had much luck with women. He'd been left virtually at the altar by one, another girl he was sweet on had been killed in a road accident. There had been girls at university and medical school, but each one of them had left him for tougher, more assertive men.

'You are a nice man.' She turned round to him and stroked his face. 'You understand so much.'

'We must get married.' His pale brown eyes held hers. 'We belong together, Amy. Maybe we can even have a baby, before it's too late.'

Joy welled up inside her. 'You really want a child?' she whispered.

It was all so perfect. He was offering her the one thing she wanted above all else, a chance to be a mother again.

'I never wanted anything more,' he said, his lips trembling, coming closer to meet hers.

'I love you, Greg,' she murmured as his lips covered hers. 'This time I'll be strong with Mother.'

Slowly he undressed her, kissing her neck, her shoulders, her breasts as her clothes fell to the floor. 'You're such a beautiful woman,' he said as he moved cushions on to the rug for her to lie on. 'I hope our baby looks like you.'

Greg's lovemaking evoked all those emotions she'd had at seventeen, but now it was sweeter still because there was no anxiety or shame. His fingers were gentle. Love and tenderness guided him, rattier than experience, and his sensual delight at stroking and licking at her turned sex to a feast of erotic pleasure. His half-closed eyes were dreamy as his tongue slid up and down on her fanny, he murmured sweet words, pushing his fingers hard into her till she was writhing in ecstasy.

The music, the fire and the soft lights all added to the moment. She was on fire, every nerve-ending jangling and demanding that he bring her to a climax, yet holding back because she wanted this bliss to last forever. He rolled her on to her side and entered her from behind, one hand holding her breast, the other stroking her fanny, whispering words that heightened the sensations still further.

'I'm coming,' she cried out, holding his hand against her. 'Oh, Greg, I love you!'

Mabel heard a car pass the farm then pull up further down the road, but it meant nothing more than a couple of youngsters stopping for a spot of petting before going home. She peered through the darkness to her clock on her bedside table. It was nearly two.

'I can't think what Amy wants to go home with him for,' she grumbled to herself. 'Shouldn't think he knows what it's for.'

In fact she was lying awake because she was ashamed of herself. She wished she hadn't said those sharp things to Amy, and in her heart she welcomed Greg as a son-in-law. If only she could admit to Amy that her bad moods and barbed remarks were brought on by fear – fear of being left alone again.

A sharp sound made her prick up her ears. A heavy boot against a stone?

Her bedroom overlooked the road and that sound had come from someone stepping into the little lane up the side of the house.

It was too late for Amy to come home now, and besides, Greg was far too much of a gentleman not to escort her. Had it been an odd drunk lurching home she would have heard the feet going on past. But there was nothing!

She could hear wind in the elms, the faint tapping sound of a loose piece of corrugated iron on the barn roof, and an owl down by the river. But whoever kicked that stone was now standing still outside. She got out of bed and looked out of the window. The fire station light was on as it always was, casting a beam as far as the bridge, but there was no-one there.

There was enough light through the window to see herself in the dressing-table mirror. 'You look like Mother,' she said to herself indignantly. She didn't like old age. To see herself in the ruffle-necked nightdress, hair thin and white, her face lined, made her smart with anger. It seemed such a short while ago that her skin was smooth and glowing, that her hair tumbled over her shoulders and her body made men turn their heads.

She heard another sound. This time it came from the yard, a scuffle of boot on cobble. Silently she padded across the room, out on to the landing and into Paul's old room next door.

She came in here a great deal when Amy was out, to touch his model planes, to look at his pictures and arrange his soldiers. Harry always slept in here when he came with Tara, but she'd never told him how right it felt to see him in there.

She saw a shadow in the yard. Just a momentary darkening on the barn door, but she knew it was someone creeping along by the back of the house. Standing very still, she listened. He was fumbling with the doorknob. She was scared now, suddenly all too aware of being alone.

'I must phone the police,' she whispered. 'Creep down so he doesn't see me and phone before he gets in.'

How many times had Greg told them they shouldn't leave the door unlocked? She'd tried to explain that that was the way she'd always known, because she'd never considered she had anything worth stealing.

There was no time. Any minute he would be in; she must rush to the phone. But as she reached the top of the stairs she heard the back door creak open, then close a second later.

Indignation was greater than fear. How dare someone creep into her house at Christmas, uninvited? She continued down the stairs, peering over the banisters and considering her next move. A faint gleam of light suggested a torch. She couldn't hear the sounds of drawers or cupboards opening. He must be just looking around. All she could hear was the ticking of the grandfather clock.

Slowly she crept down the stairs, avoiding the one that creaked, proud of herself for not making a sound. The sitting-room door was open slightly, the smell of pine strong and warm. As she got to the bottom stair she darted in there to pick up the heavy candlestick. Her heart was thumping so loud it was surprising he didn't come to find the source. She wished she'd stopped to put her dressing gown on over her nightdress.

Taking a deep breath Mabel moved out of the sitting room back into the hall and towards the kitchen. She had it all quite clear in her head. Switch on the light and order him out. If he didn't go she'd hit him, then call the police. Her hand stole round to the light switch, she counted silently to three, then flashed it on.

'What the hell are you doing in my house?' she screamed. 'Get out!'

But even as her brave words came out, fear struck her. Not so much because of his build, though he towered above her and seemed to fill the kitchen, but because he wore a black balaclava which covered his entire face except for his eyes, nose and top lip. The eyes were dark brown and they looked startled. He moved towards her threateningly.

She brandished the candlestick. 'Get out or I'll call the police,' she shouted, moving sideways towards the phone on the dresser.

He moved swiftly, his hand reaching the phone at the same moment hers did.

Mabel lashed out with the candlestick, but it merely glanced off his upper arm. He knocked it out of her hand on to the floor and pushed her back against the wall.

She knew then that he was more than a burglar. He wore camouflage trousers, a khaki pullover and heavy working men's boots.