When Beatrice Elizabeth Roberts started out on that late afternoon walk, little did she know that it would change her life forever.
It had been one of those rare February days, cold but with bright sunshine which showed the promise of spring and better days to come. Bea had been restless all day, longing to go for the brisk walk she was sure would invigorate her. But she'd needed to wait in for the insurance man. He hadn't come until after lunch and it was a little late now to be going for a walk and get back home before dark. She told herself she would be sensible and not go too far. She put on her dark green body warmer and matching Husky jacket, collected her keys and a small bottle of water. At the last moment she popped her mobile phone into her pocket. It was a Christmas present from her brother and she wasn’t even sure she knew how to use it properly. Graham, worried about her living on her own, insisted she not leave home without it.
Bea locked her door and stood for a moment breathing in the cold, fresh air before setting off at a brisk pace. The patchworked fields, bordered by hedgerows, washed in golden sunshine lifted her spirits. It wasn’t long before she reached the woodland trail. At every turn there was an abundance of snowdrops, appearing as a white foam on the floor of the forest, with aconites sprinkled amongst them resembling tiny drips from the sun. Later in the year there would be an azure mist of bluebells carpeting the ground.
She slowed her pace, slightly out of breath; she really should do something about her weight and try to exercise more too. At her age skin was no longer so elastic and she didn't want the flabby, plucked-chicken skin seen exposed on some womens' upper arms and necks when sporting their summer dresses. A course of keep-fit classes was starting soon at the village hall, she ought to join. She brought herself up short, stop being such a silly woman and look at the lovely woodlands, she chided herself. And then she became aware that something else had broken into her thoughts. Was it a movement? A noise?
She stopped, looked and listened. She wasn't alarmed, just curious. Bea waited a few moments but there was nothing. She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see how late it was growing. She hadn’t realised she'd walked that far. She really would have to step it out now to be back before dark. Bea turned to retrace her footsteps when she heard it again, surely the sound that had first caused her to pause. Her heart quickened with the first stirrings of alarm. Something. . . Someone moaning in obvious pain. Dear God, what was it? Where was it? Without thought for her safety Bea found herself calling out.
‘Hello! Hello? Anybody there?’ There was only silence. ‘Hello. What’s the matter?’ Nothing stirred. But she was sure. . . She started forward to where she thought the sound first emanated from. The moan came again, not so loud but more distressed than ever. Bea rushed towards it, undergrowth and brambles catching at her trousers, slowing her progress.
‘Hold on.’ she panted. ‘Can you hear me?’ Only another fainter moan answered her. And then, there he was, lying face down in a small clearing, dressed only in white shirt, jeans and trainers on this cold and growing colder, February day.
‘Oh my goodness!’ Bea ran to him.
She knelt and placed her hand on his neck. There was a pulse, but he was so cold. And drunk! She could smell the alcohol on him. She took off her jacket, wrapped it round him and began chafing his hands. Even without injuries she knew he could die of the cold. He didn't stir, he'd lapsed into unconsciousness. The phone! She retrieved it from her jacket pocket, rang 999 and asked for the ambulance service.
‘Hello! Yes, a young man, drunk and unconscious. He’s extremely cold, he's only wearing a thin shirt and jeans. I can’t see any blood or bruises. I don’t know how long he’s been like this. What shall I do?’
Bea was told to keep him warm, the risk was hypothermia; to stay with him and if he regained consciousness keep him alert but not to move him. She gave them the best directions she could and lay down and covered him with her body. Even she felt cold and it was going to be a long wait. After only a few minutes Bea realized that he was still not getting the warmth he so desperately needed. She didn't know what to do. If only she’d taken that first aid course. An article she'd read about survival flashed into her mind. She blushed hotly. She couldn't! But he was at risk and now was not the time for maidenly modesty. She wriggled her way under the jacket, unzipped her body warmer and undid her blouse. She balked at removing her bra. She gently pushed and rocked him onto his side. Too embarrassed to look him in the face, she concentrated on undoing the buttons on his shirt then pressed her naked, warm flesh against his cold, hard young body. She hugged and massaged him trying to warm him and circulate the blood. She kept up a steady stream of meaningless chatter all the while and she prayed.
Bea wasn’t sure how long it was before she became aware of his response. She raised her head and looked into his dazed, bemused young face. His unbelievably beautiful young face.
The sight of him took her breath away. She was a sensible, mature, down-to-earth woman but she had never felt so moved by anything or anyone in her whole life. Flustered and unnerved, she realised that he was still looking to her for some sort of explanation.
‘It’s alright,’ she said, pulling her blouse together as he became more aware of the bizarre situation and perhaps wondered exactly what he might have done. ‘You’ve had some sort of accident. I found you unconscious. Do you remember anything?’ She had got her breath back and her pulse was was slowing to near normal.
He tried to speak but couldn't. He shook his head; even that drained him. He fell back, eyes drooping shut.
‘No!’ Bea shook his shoulders. 'You must stay awake. Talk to me. Come on. Yes, you can. What's your name?'
His eyelids fluttered open. He glared at her with dark, brooding eyes; resentful, rebellious.
‘Please…’ she begged. ‘I’m only trying to help.’
He parted his lips but no sound came out.
‘Try.’
He opened his dry mouth again, tried to wet his full, sensual lips with an equally dry tongue. Bea sat up. She reached into a jacket pocket and brought out the small bottle of water and a clean handkerchief. She wet the handkerchief, moistened his lips then raised the opened bottle to them.
‘Just a sip!’ she said when he tried to gulp down the whole contents. She was rewarded with another flash of arrogant anger from his dark eyes. What a rebellious child he must have been.
‘Be gentle to yourself,’ she said. ‘Don’t do more damage than there may already be.’
His eyes flooded tears and the full mouth trembled like a baby’s. Not so tough then. He took one small sip and watched her and, when she nodded, another and then one more before she took the bottle away. And though he briefly opened his mouth to protest, she saw that he acquiesced to her will and it moved her. Everything about him moved her.
‘If it doesn’t make you sick, you can have some more soon. Now, can you tell me your name?’ Still he seemed to hesitate, deeply troubled and he stared at her as if to measure how much he could trust her.
She returned his gaze and waited for his struggle to be resolved. Would he lie to her? Did it matter? As long as she could call him something it would make conversation easier. His mouth trembled with the effort. She nodded, smiled,
‘You can tell me,’ she said.
He drew in a deep, ragged breath.
‘Jonathon,’ he said.
‘Is that what your friends call you?'
‘Jonny.’ He made a small shrug and jutted his chin at her.
‘Beatrice. Bea,' she said. 'You look familiar Jonny. Are you from round here?’
He gave a small, harsh laugh. ‘No.’
She wondered at the cynicism.
‘But. . . I know your face from somewhere, I’m sure I do.’
At that, he swiftly turned his face as if to hide his identity. Something in that action revealed it. Full face and profile, she knew him. She couldn’t believe that he was here before her, but she knew him. She inhaled sharply and saw his face crumble with pain and despair. She'd recognised him and that was the last thing he wanted.
‘Oh my goodness,’ she breathed. ‘I do know you. . . you’re him! That actor – in the television series – you’re…’ his full name still escaped her.
‘The lush!’ he spat out. ‘The womaniser. The cheat. The loser.’ His voice rasped to a standstill.
‘The bad boy,’ said Bea. That tag was certainly applied to him in any news article she'd ever seen. He lowered his head and wouldn't look at her. He looked thoroughly beaten and that troubled her.
‘You're the most wonderfully gifted actor,’ she said. ‘You act everyone else off the screen.’ She knew she was babbling but couldn’t seem to stop the flow of inconsequential words. ‘When you’re in a scene no-one has eyes for anyone else. . .’
‘Once!’ he almost screamed at her. ‘Before I pissed it all up the wall!’
Bea recoiled at his language and vehemence.
He swallowed hard. ‘I apologise,’ he said, voice husky and rough. ‘You’re a lady…. even I can see that.’
She gave him a couple more sips of water.
‘I’m so cold.’ He shivered and she gathered him against the warmth of her body. She felt him start to drift away and he needed to stay awake, alert. She gave him a little shake.
‘I don’t think many ‘ladies’ would be doing this,’ she murmured to cover any embarrassment,
He laughed softly against her. She liked the sound of his laugh. He didn't sound embarrassed, surprised maybe.
‘What are you doing here, Jonny?’ She pulled her jacket more tightly around him and gave him another little shake when he didn't answer. ‘Come along, Jonny, you have to stay awake. Talk to me. Tell me.’
‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head as if trying to remember. ‘I walked out again.’
‘Rehab?’
‘Third time,’ he admitted with obvious self-loathing.
Bea felt compassion for his deep, troubled sorrow.
‘You mustn’t hate yourself.’
He shuddered against her.
‘Why not? Everyone else does!’
‘No, no,’ she murmured, surely that couldn’t be so. She rocked him.
‘When they find out, they’ll crucify me.’ His despair grieved her. She stiffened. ‘What!’ he demanded. ‘What?’
‘I’ve called an ambulance…they’ll be here soon,’ she admitted.
‘NO! NO!’ he protested. ‘Get me away!' Then, desperate, pleading. ‘You’ve got to get me away from here,’ pulling away to study her face.
‘How? You’re too weak to move… and I can’t carry you.’
‘Go back, get a car. Oh for Christ’s sake get me away Bea!’ His blasphemy seared her.
‘Jonathon!’
‘I apologise. Sorry Bea, but I can’t let them find me. I can’t. I can’t take any more.’ His desperation unnerved her more than his towering rage.
‘Hush, let me think.’ She gathered him back in and hugged and rocked and patted his back as if he were a fretful child. ‘I can’t leave you to go for my car Jonny, it'd take too long. The ambulance would get here before me. If I phone anyone else it’s bound to all come out.’ She spoke her thoughts as if trying to arrange them into some sense. He murmured unintelligibly.
‘Hush, now. . . I know. I’ll say you’re my son. We’ll use different names. What's your real name?’ she lifted away and looked at him.
‘Jonathon,’ he said flatly, giving her a pained look.
‘Oh, well. Have you a second name?’
‘Michael,’ he sighed wearily. He didn't seem to have any confidence in her strategy at all.
‘Fine, answer to Michael from now on. You’re Michael Roberts, my son.’
‘You can’t do that!’ he almost scoffed.
‘I can and I will. I’m old enough to be.’
He gazed at her.
‘You’d do that? You’d really do that for me?’
‘Yes. You’ll have to learn my address and telephone number. Can you do that?’
He gave her a look of utter disdain.
‘I learn hundreds of pages of dialogue….’ he informed her.
‘When you're well,’ she granted, ignoring his patronising, sarcastic tone. ‘But you're not well at the moment, are you?’ He was growing weaker by the moment.
He closed his eyes, his full mouth turned down. He shook his head. He was not at all well. Bea wondered if they could pull it off – she’d recognised him quickly enough. But he looked ill and much thinner than on the television. He’d shaved off his distinctively shaped beard and wore an all-over stubble. He was scruffy and unkempt unlike the immaculate model he was usually photographed as. Except, that was, when he was thrown out of a club or pub drunken and brawling. At the moment he looked like a little boy lost; her heart went out to him. His need was palpable. It was a long time since anyone had needed her. She cuddled him and he clung to her gratefully.
‘Thank you, Bea,’ he found the grace to say.
‘Mum,’ she reminded reluctantly. He nodded.
Panic struck him. He patted his sides. Looked frantically around.
‘Where’s my jacket?’
‘You weren’t wearing one.’
‘Fuck!’ he exploded.
‘Jonathon!’
‘I apologise,’ he said quickly. ‘I've been mugged. My wallet, credit cards, phone! I’ve got fu…. damn all left! What am I going to do?’
'The police will. . .'
'No!' he said forcefully. There would be publicity.
‘Isn’t there anyone Jonathon?’
‘No.' He evaded her eyes. 'I’ve told you. Oh God help me, what am I going to do?’ he clutched her and she winced. He released her immediately. ‘I apologise,’ he said quietly. She knew he hadn’t meant to hurt her.
She also knew he'd lied. He had to have someone; but he wasn't going to admit it.
‘Let’s get you well first. Listen!' she said as he made to interrupt. “We’ll get you to hospital and once they’ve patched you up, you can come and stay with me for a few days if you still need to. . . if you want. Until it dies down and we can sort things out. But let’s get you through the hospital bit first.’
‘You can’t! You don’t mean it? You’d do that?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
He trembled and shook; he was in shock.
‘Oh thank God. I can hear the ambulance,’ said Bea.
‘I think you’d better dress yourself. . . mum,’ he advised and managed a grin. She shook her head and, blushing at his teasing, hastily arranged her clothes. She had never been so pleased to see headlights looming in the gathering dark.
Bea went with him in the ambulance and at the hospital told lie after lie and prayed for forgiveness and that they would not be found out. At least not yet. Not yet. Let him have a little time.
No one seemed to take notice of another young man with suspected alcohol poisoning and possible hypothermia brought in by a distraught parent. They pumped his stomach out and put him on a drip and oxygen. He looked so vulnerable that she couldn't bear to leave him. And what if the Press came and tried to tear him to shreds for his failings brought on by a genius the like of which had destroyed so many other rare talents.
She sat by his bed all the long night and held his hand. Sometimes he woke and stared at her with such haunted, tormented eyes until he recognised her once again and drifted back into sleep. Once, as she was nodding off, all the bleepers and alarms sounded and everyone came running and there was such shrill, cold terror in her heart that it would be for nothing. That he and his wonderful talent would be lost to all. But he rallied and she lay briefly on the bed beside him and held him and caressed his face and hands as if he were the most precious thing she had ever known. As if he really were the son she had never borne and never now could. She prayed for him as she had done for no other.
He came to and saw her kneeling there and he cried out in fear, ripping off his oxygen mask. She rose and went to him immediately.
‘Am I dying?’ he asked.
She took his cold, trembling hand. ‘No, Jonny,’ she said, trying to get the mask back on him. He tossed his head away.
‘You were praying. . . For me?’ His beautiful eyes were full of tears.
‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But only for you to get strong and to be good.’
‘You’ll be there all night,’ he choked.
‘If that’s what it takes.’ She saw the tears tumble down his cheeks and brushed them away. ‘Go back to sleep now, there’s nothing to be frightened of.’
He started to deny his fear. She placed a finger softly against his mouth. ‘Sleep,’ she said.
He closed his eyes. They flew open again almost immediately. She had taken her finger away.
‘You won’t leave me?’ Her heart constricted painfully; she shook her head. He just gazed at her, waiting. ‘I won’t leave you,’ she promised. He sighed deeply and let her put his mask back on, closed his eyes and in just a few moments, he slept.
And the morning brought the most wonderful change in him. There was a little colour now in his cheeks and his eyes were clear when they alighted on her sitting by his bed. He took off his mask, though she protested.
‘You’re still here,’ he breathed.
‘Yes; I told you I wouldn’t leave you,’ she said. ‘Now put that back on.’
‘Yes mum,’ he grinned and did as he was told as if he were the most amenable of children and not the wild, bad boy so beloved of the Press.
Oh, and she must keep the papers from him. They didn't know where he was but indeed they vilified him. Talk of broken contracts and walking out of rehab for a third time, drunken brawling and the acrimonious break up of his goodness-knew-what number relationship. Oh tell me he didn’t strike her, she silently begged.
They had raked up all the past. She was nearly sick reading the lurid details starting when he was thrown out of school at sixteen. Explicit descriptions of all manner of sexual encounters. And the pictures! Urinating in the streets, endlessly vomiting, most infamously over the Jimmy Choo shoes of an icy, disgusted Victoria at the last Bafta; the acceptance speech liberally littered with every profanity and obscenity his slurring tongue could enunciate. His once elegant Armani suit crumpled, spotted and besmirched by every body fluid of man, woman and maybe even beast. Fifteen years on from that first expulsion and still he could not control his appetite for drink and sex and brawling yet she sensed his sweeter, softer side. The side he was so desperate to hide. What was she doing? She should turn on her heel and leave him to it.
‘You should go home.’
Bea looked up, startled, that he'd somehow read her thoughts, only to see him watching her with such tender concern.
‘Later,’ she said, straightening his covers.
‘You ought to rest,’ he insisted, taking her hand and making her be still.
‘I will. After the doctor has been,’ she promised, gently extricating her hand.
‘Did you mean it?’
‘Mean what?’
‘That I can come and stay with you?’ he reminded watching her face closely.
She barely paused, had she really made so rash a promise? ‘Of course,’ she asserted.
‘Then go home and get the car and come back for me. I’ll sign myself out.’
‘You will not.’
‘You’re not my fucking mother!’
‘Jonathon!’ She recoiled at his violent, offensive reaction.
‘It’s Michael,’ he hissed, unrepentant.
She just gazed at him, waiting. Eventually, he lowered his rebellious, arrogant eyes.
‘I apologise,’ he said. It almost sounded as if he meant it; then, softer, more sincere. ‘I’m sorry Bea.’
‘It’s mum.’
He gave a short, joyful laugh. 'You don't look old enough,' he told her.
She looked at him. It was to be flattery now, was it?
'You don't.'
'Jonathon.'
‘Please…’ trying it on again.
‘No...... and don’t you dare.’ she warned against another outburst. He looked so vulnerable and forlorn that she relented. ‘You're not well enough yet sweetheart and I can’t….’
‘What did you just call me?’
She realised what she'd said and blushed.
‘I didn’t mean….I’m sorry…..it’s just an endearment….I won’t embarrass you again,’ she murmured, wondering why on earth she'd said it and what must he think.
‘No-one's ever called me that. I’m not embarrassed. I just can’t believe a fine lady would say that to me…… I don’t deserve it.’ He tried to reach for her hand but she evaded him.
‘I think you do,’ she said but she knew he was devious and not above flattery to get his way. ‘But I'm not changing my mind. If the doctor says you must stay, you will stay. I’m an old lady, I can't nurse you as you need....'
‘Don’t say that!’ he raged. She gave him a quizzical look. ‘Old lady,’ he said dismissively. ‘You’re not!’
‘Days I feel it,’ she assured him and this was one of them. ‘Will you promise me?’ she pressed him.
‘Only this. One more day. And I mean that. If you don't come for me then, I'll walk out of here by myself and to hell with it!’ He raised his jaw arrogantly, defiantly.
‘We’ll see,’ she almost taunted him.
‘I mean it,’ he threatened, watching her for her reaction.
She sighed. ‘Please don’t do anything foolish.’
‘Why change the habits of a lifetime?’
‘You’re impossible!’ exasperated with him.
‘This I have heard before.’ Bored, uncaring, spiteful. He turned away.
‘Then I shall have to find something new to say to you,’ she told him firmly.
He looked at her then with something more like respect and again his tone softened.
‘Don’t be angry with me, Bea,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve taken a lot but I find that very hard. Your good opinion matters to me; it really does.’
‘Then you must earn it,’ she told him unequivocally.
He gazed long at her; to be chided yet again, then lowered his head. If he'd thought her an easy touch he now knew different.
‘Deserved.’ he acknowledged and raised his head to look at her. ‘And I will.’ he promised.
The doctor was adamant that the patient would not be discharged so soon. And they couldn't trace his medical records. Bea watched, with growing uneasiness, the stubborn set of Jonathon’s jaw, the firm press of his lips, the brooding rebellion of his eyes. She was beginning to read him all too well and he was brewing up for another unpleasant outburst. He was not used to being told ‘no’ nor did he lightly accept it. She mouthed a silent ‘please’ to him and he held his peace in deference to her, but she knew it wasn't over yet. When the doctor had gone Jonathon beckoned her to him.
‘You must go now and get some proper rest, you look tired,’ he said soft and sweet and taking her hands in his. ‘And make ready for me to come to you the day after tomorrow.’
‘Jonathon!’ she tried to withdraw her hands. He held them tight.
‘You will sway me on many things Bea, I acknowledge that. But not this. This battle is over. Yes?’ he shook her hands gently for her reply.
She sighed. ‘Yes.’
He drew her down and she bent to kiss his cheek farewell. At the last moment he turned his face and she felt that full sensual mouth press into her lips and she gasped. He did not presume to enter with his tongue but breathed softly between her parted lips and she pulled away shocked and confused, more with her own reaction than his. He gazed concerned at her. She could see from his surprised expression that he was unused to that kind of reaction in any woman. But Beatrice Elizabeth Roberts wasn't ‘any’ woman.
‘I would not offend you, Bea,’ he hastily assured her. ‘And you may slap my face if I have done so.’ He even lifted his cheek for her hand to strike him. Not for the first time did she wonder at the strange formality and tone of his speech and manners. She regarded him uncertainly.
‘You should not have done that,’ she reproached, tugging herself free.
‘But no slap?’ he enquired raising one eyebrow; the beginnings of insolence in his eyes and on his lips.
She did raise her hand to him at that if he thought he was beyond reproach. He just waited unflinchingly for the blow. She couldn't do it to him though he deserved it; he did deserve it. Instead she caressed the proffered cheek.
‘Don’t do this to me, Jonathon.’
He took her hand from his cheek, placed a kiss within her palm and tenderly closed her fingers over it.
‘There's no harm in it,’ he assured her. ‘You saved my life, how could I ever harm you?’
‘You don't mean to, I'll give you that, but that doesn't make it right Jonny. I'm too old for games,’ she told him wearily.
‘Age has nothing to do with it; why do you make it such an issue? I am not playing with you, truly Bea, I am not.’
‘The greatest fool is the one that fools himself, Jonathon. Many things I may be, but I am not a fool.’ She tugged her hand free.
‘And I am?’
She wouldn't answer him. His eyes narrowed. ‘Where are the papers, Bea? They weren't brought round this morning.’ It almost sounded innocent but she made no answer. ‘Ah, now we have it. I will have them brought to me. I will read what they have said…. as if I didn’t know. And that has brought your opinion low of me.’ Not even the bitterness could entirely hide the pain.
‘No, Jonathon.’
‘Why not, only ninety nine percent of it's true!’ he snarled. Bea gasped as if he had struck her. He suddenly collapsed; he buried his face in his hands. ‘Oh God,’ he wept. ‘You saved my life, Bea, but it really wasn’t worth it!’ His voice ached with such desolation. She tore his hands away.
‘Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare ever say that again or I will slap you; slap you senseless. You're better than that. You are so much better than that. And you will prove them wrong. You will Jonathon, I know you will. You'll be the best that's ever been.’
He shook his head. ‘Only if you help me. You will help me, Bea?’ The desperate plea tore her heart. He was distraught and so vulnerable; she could only guess at the reason for his despair.
‘Anything..... anything,’ she tried to soothe him. 'Jonathon, please don’t read the papers. You were right. They have crucified you; my heart aches. It will do you no good to read the vileness they've poured out on you; you're not strong enough yet for that.’ She rubbed his cold, restless fingers with her thumbs.
‘Do you believe it Bea, what they've said of me? Do you?’ he choked, pulling his hands away to rub his tears with his forearm. There would be no hiding the truth from him. He knew her in a lie now.
‘I think you've been very wild and foolish and bad and there's no denying you've been there; photographed in all your shame for the whole world to see.’
He moaned as if she had struck him and turned his face away. She reached for his hands, squeezing them to make him look at her.
‘But that was then and this is now and you can and will be better than that,’ she asserted. ‘You have such greatness in you Jonathon. I've seen it – others have seen it. Unfortunately, you haven't learnt how to handle it. Instead you put a thief in your mouth to take away your senses. You put him there, Jonathon, no-one else and only you can keep him out.’ She paused but he said nothing. ‘I will help you if I can. I believe in you Jonny, but you have to believe in yourself too....... You can do this. You can be alongside the great; you could even be the greatest actor this world has ever seen. To make that happen you have to be strong, Jonathon. Be strong.’
He seemed to gather himself up again, sniffing back the tears.
‘Come back soon, Bea?’ he asked of her. ‘You're good for me.’
She reached for a tissue and mopped his face for him. He caught hold of her hand.
‘Please.....’ He looked at her. She hadn’t given him an answer.
‘I will,’ she relented. ‘but promise - no newspapers.’ She held his gaze.
‘I promise,’ he said. And for all his deviousness, she believed him. She retrieved her handbag and opened it. He watched her take some money out.
'No,' he said.
She put it on the cabinet.
'You might need it. Magazines, the phone. You can pay me back.' she said. He had trouble controlling his mouth and there were tears in his eyes again. She bent and kissed his cheek and he let her and didn’t turn his face to kiss her lips.
She left him then, drained and confused, not knowing what she had taken on and her emotions in turmoil. She was old enough to be his mother, probably was older than his own mother, but what she was beginning to feel for that troubled young man was certainly not anything maternal. And it did not feel right. She had promised to help him though and she would.
Home once more Bea began preparing for her ‘house guest’. The cottage was small, with only one bedroom and it was obvious Jonathon would be needing that. She changed the bed and made up one for herself on the sofa then phoned the village store. She put in an order and asked for it to be delivered the following day. That done, she drove to the garage and filled up the car before going on to a supermarket she rarely used and went straight to the men’s section. Jonathon had nothing but the clothes he stood up in. She searched and found a young male assistant of about Jonathon’s size and asked his advice. She bought shirts and jumpers, jeans, trainers and underwear, pyjamas and slippers. Much to the assistant’s amusement she also insisted on a hoodie style jacket, and a long scarf.
She next went to the optical section and bought a pair of heavy-framed reader magnifying glasses of the poorest strength. With the hoodie up the scarf round his chin and those glasses, surely no one would recognise that beautiful, famous face.
Bea drove home with her purchases and once inside made herself a cup of tea and a sandwich and sat down to rest.
A shrill ringing woke her with a start and she jumped up from her seat and stumbled over to the phone.
‘Hello?’ she said hesitantly.
‘Bea! Bea! Come and get me now! Please, Bea, they’re on to me! It won’t be long before they find me.... Please Bea, oh please. ... For Christ’s sake, Bea!’
‘Jonathon!.... Jonathon, sweet…..’
‘Oh Bea, for the love of God come and get me. Now! Please, Bea. If you don’t say you’re coming, I’m going to walk out - I will - with nothing and no one and nowhere to go. Bea! Bea!’
‘It's alright Jonathon. I'll be there. I'll be there soon.’ His desolate, hysterical sobs tormented her. She put down the phone, gathered up her purchases, her jacket, her keys and hurried to the car. Please God let him still be there, she prayed.
She didn't like driving in the dark, she was afraid but not more so than he. The drive seemed endless and then finding a parking spot. Her heart was pounding fit to burst by the time she bustled through the hospital doors. Let him still be here, dear God let him still be here.
Her mind was frenzied. Was this the right corridor? She couldn’t even stop to ask, every second counted. Jonathon, Jonathon.
His cries led her to the right room. He was huddled beneath the bedclothes but she recognised his desperate sobbing; a nurse trying to reason with him.
‘It’s alright nurse.’ She hardly recognized her own voice. ‘I’m his mother. I’ve come to take him home.’ She started towards the bed.
‘Mrs Roberts, he isn’t in any fit state to go anywhere, really he isn’t. The doctors are considering sectioning him,’ the nurse informed her.
Jonathon startled out of the covers and stared at Bea in horror.
‘Nooooooo!’ Their anguished voices were in unison. ‘I can deal with it,’ assured Bea. ‘I’ve nursing experience. I’ve dealt with him before. Come along Michael, let’s get you dressed…... Michael this is your mother talking to you! Can we have some privacy here nurse!’
The nurse glared at her and walked out. ‘I’m fetching the doctor,’ she threatened.
‘Quickly, Jonathon, here put these on.’ She thrust his new clothes at him and quickly turned away.
‘This is no time for modesty!’ he hissed. ‘For the love of Christ help me woman!’ She did so; blushing violently at the sight of his naked body but he could barely stand without her assistance let alone dress himself. ‘Smart!’ He managed a self-deprecating smirk.
‘At least I don’t think you’ll be recognized,’ she retorted, stung.
‘Not in these,’ he agreed, but gave her the sweetest most thankful smile. ‘You are clever.’
‘We’re not out of here yet! Come on, lean on me. Dear God, you’re heavier than you look. Quickly as you can now,’ she urged.
On the way out they managed to snaffle an unguarded crutch which made their progress easier, but not much. Bea even joined in his nervous giggle as he peg-legged it along. But he was so weak they needed to stop and sit often so that he could catch his breath.
A passing Porter offered them a wheelchair and Bea accepted gratefully. She trundled Jonathon along as fast as she could. Any moment she thought they would be stopped. They left the wheelchair in the car park but Jonathon held on to the crutch. She didn't argue. He needed it and she could return it later.
In the back seat of her car he looked so pale and worn that she nearly dragged him back. He could die and it would be her fault.
‘Drive woman. Drive!’ he urged and without another backward glance she jumped into the car and did his bidding.
She drew up close to the cottage, got out and pulled the front door wide. She opened the rear car door but he didn't even stir.
‘Jonny, we’re here. Wake up. Jonny …. sweetheart.’
His lids fluttered open and there was no recognition; panic, fear, desperation.
‘What the fu..?’ realization stopped him short. ‘Bea, oh it’s you. Thank God!’
She helped him into the cottage, through to the small downstairs bedroom. He collapsed on the bed. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To put the car away. You get ready for bed… your pyjamas are under the pillow....’ She saw the look of utter disbelief cross his face; as if a man like him would ever wear pyjamas! She backed out hurriedly before he forgot himself - again.
She garaged the car then came in and boiled the kettle for a cup of tea and a hot water bottle… she wished she'd put the bottle in the bed before leaving for the hospital but it would soon be remedied.
There were no sounds from the bedroom so she crossed quickly and coughed politely before she went in, to save them both embarrassment. No; only mine she thought as she entered. He was asleep atop the bedclothes exactly as she had left him. He was exhausted. She brushed a wayward strand of hair from his eyes and they immediately opened.
‘I said get ready for bed,’ she scolded gently.
‘Then help me woman, I’m weak as water. Truly Bea.’ It was no ploy. She nodded and helped him sit up, unbuttoned and eased him from his hoodie jacket, his new jumper and shirt and pulled the pyjamas from under the pillow. ‘I don’t….’
‘Oh yes you do.’ she said firmly and pushed him into the sleeves and buttoned him up primly. He was not unaware that the pyjama top would be sufficiently long to cover his nether regions….. at least while he was sitting. He waited, remarkably docile.
‘Can…Oh Jonathon can you at least manage the zip!’
He smiled and relented momentarily.
She knelt and unlaced his trainers. It moved him so deeply he had to swallow back tears from his aching throat and blink his stinging eyes. She removed his trainers and socks and tugged experimentally at the end of his jeans.
'Can you lift yourself up a moment?’ she asked looking up at him from where she knelt at his feet.
He tried; he did try, but lay back panting with the effort. She rose and lifted his legs onto the bed.
‘Roll onto your side,’ she instructed and he did so. With great difficulty she managed to pull one side down a little way. ‘Now the other way.’ Again he silently obeyed.
After a couple more attempts she triumphantly yanked his jeans off. His boxers came too and he rolled onto his back. She gasped and hid her furiously blushing face in her hands as he was exposed in all his glory. He had thought he would laugh luxuriously, uproariously at her embarrassed confusion. He didn't; he felt mean and shamed by his own deviousness.
‘I don’t usually have that sort of reaction from women….’ wounded, he tried to make light of it. She had turned away.
‘I’m not your usual type of woman,’ she informed him wearily.
‘Indeed you are not,’ he said with soft admiration. He pulled down his pyjama top. ‘I’m decent now,’ he assured her, but he knew he was not a decent man and he wished with all his heart that he was.
She turned slowly and even she, modest woman that she was, couldn't help her gaze from quickly dropping to where his hands now rested, covering himself completely so that he would not offend her again. She helped him into the pyjama bottoms and they were both uncomfortable till he was decently clad. She helped him beneath the covers; the small exertion had drained him once again.
‘Would you like something to eat, drink?’ The smallest shake of his head. She started to leave.
‘Don’t go.’
‘You need to rest,’ she told him.
‘I’ll do that easier if you’re with me.’
She sat beside the bed. His hand slid across the cover to her and she took it in both her own as with a fretful child. He sighed and his body relaxed but within minutes he was trembling violently.
‘I’m cold, Bea,’ he stuttered. ‘I’m so cold.’
‘I’ll make a hot water bottle.’
‘No! No!.....’ That obviously wasn’t what he wanted. ‘You..! You get in with me. I want you to hold me like you did before.’ He’d never known such ease and comfort; he wanted it again.
‘I can’t do that Jonathon. It…. isn’t right.’
He was beginning to know this gentle, modest woman. He didn’t understand her, but he was beginning to know her.
‘I just want you to hold me,’ he begged. ‘I won’t do anything, Bea.’ But she was unconvinced. ‘I can’t do anything, I haven’t got the strength. Just stay with me tonight……Please….’ She just looked at him unyieldingly. He lost all patience.
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, woman, it’s not as if you’ve never slept with a man before…..!’
She spun away that he could not see her face but the cry escaped her and it would have pierced the hardest heart.
‘No!’ he gasped. ‘Oh no, Bea. Oh say that isn’t so. You’ve never…..’
‘That’s enough Jonathon!’ her voice cut through him. He rolled to the side of the bed, caught her hand and made her turn to him.
‘Did someone hurt you, Bea?’
‘No,’ she tried to pull away but he held her firm.
‘Did someone harm you?’ he insisted.
‘No! Why does it always have to be that?’
‘Because I can’t believe anything other. Such a loving, giving person as you has never … never…’ for once in his life he struggled to find the right words. He, who earned his living saying the right words. But this experience was beyond him. ‘I don’t understand. Tell me. You can tell me.’
Her legs collapsed beneath her and she fell into the chair but still she did not speak.
‘You know everything about me. What a miserable excuse for a man I am……’
‘It’s perfectly simple really,’ she cut in, unable to bear him denigrate himself before her again. ‘I entered a convent at eighteen and I hadn’t …. been ….with a man. And despite what you may think, nuns and priests don’t…..’ she was almost in tears.
He gazed open-mouthed at her. A nun!