Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Then he was free, and smiling. As she moved forward, shyness seemed to catch them both. A second’s hesitation and then he opened his arms, embracing her as though he would never let go. Breathless, on tiptoe, she clung to him while he buried his face against her hair; and then he found her mouth and kissed her hard.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said huskily, ‘you’ve no idea...’ And then he laughed to cover his emotion, hugged her and kissed her again.

  A moment later, he said ruefully, ‘I’m afraid there’s a man we have to see — and some business to attend to…’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  Glancing round, Stephen spotted the man from the office, already talking to Sparks and the 3rd Mate.

  ‘Well, we’d better get it over with. I must introduce you to Johnny – and the others, too, they’ve been a great bunch of lads, I don’t know what I’d have done without them.’

  They were surprisingly shy, Zoe found. Only the Mate seemed at ease, and he kissed her cheek as though he had known her for years. But in a strange way, Zoe understood – she’d heard so much about him from Stephen’s letters, it was like meeting an old acquaintance.

  Johnny’s girlfriend, she noted, was determined not to let him go, clinging to his arm even while he was talking to the man from the office. Keen not to do likewise, Zoe stood with Irene while the men talked and laughed, and finally organized themselves for the next moves in their separate journeys.

  She had been under the impression that all the officers were needed for the de-briefing, but Irene told her that it would only be Mac and Stephen. Watching as they all shook hands and said their goodbyes, Zoe did not miss the respect and affection with which they parted. Only the Mate addressed Stephen by his Christian name, and that seemed to be a mark of personal friendship. The others gave him his title along with their thanks, and that depth of sincerity touched Zoe deeply. Almost bursting with love and pride, she could not have spoken had her life depended on it. How Stephen managed to voice his farewells, she had no idea.

  Mr Goodall saved the day, moving in at just the right moment to whisk his group away to a waiting taxi. He sat with Stephen, while Mac squeezed between Zoe and Irene, tucking both their hands in his, and saying he had by far the best of the bargain.

  It was a journey full of jokes and hilarity, the repartee between Mac and Stephen flying back and forth with unremitting mirth. Zoe felt she had never laughed so much, her sides aching by the time they arrived at the office on Leadenhall Street. She knew this part of the city well; her father’s business premises were just around the corner on St Mary Axe.

  Although she kept that to herself, Stephen remembered. As they stepped out of the taxi, he asked about him.

  She blushed and nodded. ‘We spoke the other evening – he said if you were staying a few days, he’d like to take us both out to lunch. But you don’t have to,’ she added quickly. ‘I didn’t say for sure that we would.’

  ‘No,’ Stephen said, ‘I’d like to meet him. In fact I’m looking forward to it...’

  That pleased her, buoying her up through what seemed an interminable wait while the men were being interviewed. A receptionist brought them coffee, and Zoe and Irene gazed uncomprehendingly at shipping journals while catching up on each other’s news. Having had an early start, Irene was ravenous and longing for something to eat. Eventually, just after one o’clock, Mac and Stephen reappeared with Jack Porteous and another man to whom they were introduced. Only afterwards did they discover that he was one of the company directors.

  They dined in a nearby restaurant, but the interview seemed to have quelled their good humour. Jack Porteous kept the conversation away from the Gulf, and behaved with gallantry towards the ladies; but the other two were showing signs of strain, Zoe thought, both of them drinking more than they ate during that hour at the table. At last politeness was satisfied and Jack said he had to get back to the office, while Irene confessed she was anxious not to miss the four o’clock train from King’s Cross.

  They collected their baggage, and on a promise to meet again soon, Stephen waved Mac and Irene away in one cab and handed Zoe into the next. Joining Zoe on the rear seat, he slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

  Closing his eyes, he released a long breath. ‘I am exhausted.’

  ‘Do you want to go straight to bed?’ Zoe asked as soon as they arrived. ‘To sleep, I mean.’

  He grinned. ‘No, I’ll be fine. I just want to sit and talk to you.’

  So they sat and talked and drank coffee and tried to pretend that there was not a wall of diffidence between them. Zoe told herself that four months was a long time, and so much had happened in the interim. To Stephen, particularly. That he did not immediately want to sweep her off to bed was a disappointment; and although she was not sure she could have coped, it did seem to her the best cure for an awkwardness which seemed to be growing rather than receding.

  It was not that he was silent; indeed, he talked a great deal, about Kuwait and Karachi, the red tape at one end and the corruption at the other, but when she asked direct questions about those journeys through the Gulf, he side-stepped every one, returning to the idiosyncrasies encountered at either end.

  Noticing – as she had since meeting him that morning – that he was using his left hand most of the time, she asked about his shoulder, but he was dismissive about that, saying it was badly bruised, but otherwise fine. Clearly, he did not want to talk about the explosion or the accident, or even the subsequent journey to Dubai. He asked what Zoe had been doing, about the research and her latest commission, but she was equally reluctant to explain those esoteric connections. It did not seem the right moment to be talking about Liam.

  And then the flow of conversation suddenly dried up. She went to pour some wine, and when she returned, Stephen was slumped into a corner of the sofa, jacket off, staring blankly at the empty fireplace. He looked so exhausted that her heart went out to him, overriding awkwardness and the awful suspicion that they were strangers with nothing at all in common. Leaning across the sofa back, she kissed his cheek and stroked his hair.

  ‘I think you’re very tired,’ she said as he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. ‘I know it’s only six o’clock, but why don’t you go to bed for a couple of hours? I’ll make a chicken casserole and put it in the oven, and it won’t matter whether we eat it or not. But if you have some sleep, Stephen, you might feel better.’

  For a moment she thought he was about to protest, but he gave in, pausing only to collect his shaving things from the suitcase in the lobby. A few minutes later, going through to the bedroom to turn down the sheets for him, Zoe heard the shower running; when he came out, wrapped in a towel, she saw the bruising around his shoulder. It was black and blue and alarmingly extensive. With an involuntary gasp she reached out to touch him, but he drew her into his arms, kissing her tenderly before she could speak. He smelled damp and sweet and his mouth tasted of toothpaste, and that combination was suddenly the most erotic thing she could imagine. When he kissed her again there was an urgency about it, and in that mounting passion it seemed that all the strangeness fell away. They were together, and everything was going to be all right.

  ‘Come with me and lie down,’ he whispered, ‘I don’t want to sleep alone.’

  She ran her fingers over his shoulder, touched the bruised flesh lightly with her lips; as though he felt her unspoken question, he said: ‘It looks worse than it is. Although,’ he added with a grin, ‘I don’t think it would stand up to twenty press-ups just now. Still, never mind, perhaps I should just lie back and think of England... what do you say?’

  She laughed. ‘Well, if you will make these offers I can’t refuse...’ She kissed him, lingeringly, and smoothed the damp hair from his brow. ‘But if you want to eat later, just let me pop that casserole into the oven – two ticks, I promise!’

  It was almost ready for the oven, prepared while Stephen had been soaking away his exhaustion in the shower. She ad
ded mushrooms to the chicken breasts and covered them with a creamy sauce, slipped the dish into the oven and shut the door. There, that was that. The salad and new potatoes could wait.

  But a tremor of nerves caught her as she crossed the sitting room, making her pause and wonder why she felt so much like the mythical bride on her wedding night. She had never felt like this before... But there again, she had never been in this situation before.

  She opened the bedroom door. The westering sun flooded the room, and Stephen was lying back against the pillows, an arm across his eyes. He seemed to be asleep, yet that was strangely more of a relief than a disappointment. With a sigh she undressed quickly, her back to him. Only as she slipped between the sheets did she realize her mistake: he was not asleep, and had been watching her.

  ‘You’re so lovely,’ he whispered, folding his warm limbs around her, and she melted to him willingly, giving herself up to hands and lips and gentleness. She wanted him so much, could hardly wait to be joined with him; she needed to banish this sense of separateness and relegate the last four months to the nature of a distressing dream.

  But she sensed, very quickly, that something was wrong, and was suddenly threatened by panic. Irrational fears, prompted by more than one similar experience with Philip, left her incapable of thought or action. With a plummeting heart she tried to pretend that nothing was amiss, but the last few months rose mockingly before her, the bleak letters, the lack of any genuine endearment. All had been wonderful before, with the excitement of novelty and that instantaneous attraction; but that was then, and the attraction had waned, it was just that he did not know how to tell her...

  For a moment or two she wanted to cry; with an effort she summoned rational thought and told herself that he was tired, that he had suffered an incredible amount of stress, and just because he could not make love to her right now, did not mean that he had stopped wanting her.

  But with Philip in mind she was not entirely convinced, and the fact that Stephen drew away from her did nothing for her self-esteem. Had she possessed sufficient courage to look into his face, she might have seen that he was equally distressed, but Zoe was too concerned with hiding her own emotions, her face buried in the crook of his good shoulder, while she prayed he would not notice how deeply she was hurt.

  For a long time, neither of them spoke. She lay with her face against his chest, while his hand rested slackly against her neck. At last, in a soft, flat voice, Stephen said that he was sorry, that he was very tired, and that she mustn’t think that it was anything to do with her; and with a similar lack of joy she said that she understood, of course he was tired, and it was silly to imagine otherwise...

  He held her gently and stroked her hair, and after a while the tension in him relaxed. When she dared to lift her head, Zoe saw that he was asleep.

  Very gently, she eased herself away from him, and when she was sure that he would not stir, crept out of the bedroom with her clothes. It was a ridiculous situation. She had the strongest urge to walk out; and yet this was her flat, and Stephen Elliott was asleep in her bed. And if she wanted to get any rest tonight, she would have to creep in again beside him, and try to sleep.

  When the casserole was cooked, she turned it off and made a sandwich. She poured some more wine and watched an old film on television. When that was over she read until her eyes would no longer focus, and only then crept back to bed. Stephen stirred slightly, murmuring something about fuel lines, but did not wake.

  Zoe slept badly and rose early. Eager to avoid a repeat of the previous evening, she found her jeans and a cotton shirt and escaped to the bathroom. By the time Stephen was stirring she had already been working for an hour. Not wanting to discuss that commission, however, she quickly covered it and, in a breezy imitation of normality, offered to make him some breakfast.

  Whatever else was amiss, she decided, there was nothing wrong with his appetite. He consumed eggs and sausages and bacon, several slices of toast and marmalade, and two cups of coffee; and said that it was the best meal he had eaten in months. Gratified, she allowed herself to unbend a little, but when he reached for her afterwards, she stiffened. With a faintly hurt expression, he let her go and lit a cigarette. As she clattered about, clearing the kitchen table, he managed to startle her by saying that he felt he should return to York.

  Turning sharply, she caught his gaze, illumined by full sunlight, and in those astonishing blue eyes was something accusatory.

  ‘You don’t have to go... surely?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said quietly, stubbing out his cigarette, ‘I think I do.’

  Chilled, for a moment she could think of nothing to say. Then, foolishly, she remarked: ‘But I thought you were planning to stay for a few days?’

  ‘There are things I should attend to,’ he said, rising from the table, ‘and people I ought to see. And I really do think I need some time to sort myself out...’

  Instantly, she felt guilty, as though she had let him down; but although she said she did not want him to go, and almost begged him to stay, Stephen pointed out that he had three months’ leave due. He was going to take all of it, he said, come hell or high water. There would be plenty of time to see each other later.

  He was outwardly pleasant, but there was something so implacable about him, it froze every argument, every persuasion. Short of flinging herself at his feet, there seemed no way of denting his decision. Watching him zip up his suitcase, she felt weak and ineffectual, a fair match for that ex-wife of his. But if she had this sort of thing to contend with, Zoe thought, then I feel sorry for her.

  In the end, all she could do was insist upon taking him to the station, overriding all his objections. She drove atrociously, swearing at every driver to cross her path, but apart from a few sharply indrawn breaths, he made no comment.

  At King’s Cross there was nowhere to park. He leaned across, kissed her briefly, and said he would be in touch. ‘And if you need me, you know where I am.’

  But I need you now, she almost wailed, watching him drag his luggage, left-handedly, from the Renault’s back seat. Taxis were pipping their horns: she had to move the car. Helplessly, she glanced up at him, but he simply smiled and waved. It was a taut smile, and the salute was abrupt.

  Blinking away tears, Zoe gritted her teeth and swung out into the traffic.

  If Zoe was miserable, then so was Stephen. The difference was that he was more angry with himself than with her, and too far beyond rational thought to be able to react other than instinctively. And his instincts were to escape and lick his wounds in private. Which was what he should have done in the first place, he told himself, cursing the fantasy that had led him to think he could bury four months of hell in the peace of her arms.

  The trouble was, he had wanted her so much — too much, he supposed – expecting everything to happen brilliantly, just like the first time. Initially, there had been a moment’s promise, and then – nothing. And how to explain that while the spirit was willing, the flesh was flatly refusing to respond? He had been too appalled to explain anything; too bitterly aware of disappointment on both sides, and too demoralized to utter more than a word of apology. Vaguely, as he drifted unwillingly into oblivion, he had thought that things might be better in the morning; but she had deliberately avoided being there when he awoke, and that was what hurt most of all.

  The journey north passed in a blur, the sight of golden fields ready for harvest making no more impression than a flat expanse of ocean. As a rule he took great delight in his first view of England after months at sea, but this time nothing could lift his spirits. Even his first sight of the city walls failed to stir more than a bleak glance, and it was with no pleasure at all that Stephen returned to his flat in Bedern.

  He opened windows, turned on water and electricity, and made a cup of black coffee. There was no milk, no food laid in for his return. Joan, obviously, was not expecting him for several days. The thought of having to contact her, to answer questions about his speedy return fro
m London, was too much. He unpacked, phoned the garage about his car, then went to the pub for several pints and a sandwich. In the afternoon he slept. His car was delivered just before six, and immediately afterwards he went to Sainsbury’s to do some shopping. That evening he ate out.

  At a loss the following day he took the car out for a drive through Helmsley and Farndale and over the North York Moors, returning in a wide arc via the market towns of Thirsk and Ripon. There was pleasure in pushing the Jaguar round snaking bends, feeling the surge of power with which it conquered every hill. With Harrogate in sight and feeling slightly better, Stephen thought he would drop in to see his sister and brother-in-law.

  Pamela was just back from school and alone, but within half an hour he knew that the visit had been a mistake, that he should have waited until his mental faculties were better prepared for Pamela’s particular style of interrogation. She was pleased to see him so soon, but piqued by the idea that he had stopped off in London to see his girlfriend, rather than coming straight home to his family. Especially after what had happened.

  ‘I stayed there one night,’ he said, ‘and that was largely because I had to go into the office. I got back to York yesterday lunchtime.’

  ‘Joan never said.’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to Joan yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He answered vaguely, while Pamela’s eyes seemed to rake his face for the truth. She changed tack then, wanting to know about this girlfriend of his, the one he had said so little about.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, she’s more of a cousin than girlfriend – didn’t Joan tell you? She’s involved with family history – I was helping her for a while, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine,’ she remarked sardonically, pouring boiling water onto instant coffee. ‘Poor Ruth was so upset, you know. When that piece came on the news about your ship, she had to come over here straight away. She was in tears – it brought it all back to her...’