The Reluctant Widow part 2

He remembered his last alcoholic binge - a birthday, perhaps his own? Completely blotto, dancing with an elephant in slacks; his multicolour collapse and the alpine headache next morning. He felt the same right now, except it was not confined to his head but gurgled and bubbled all over his body. Something out of a horror movie was creeping over his flesh, ready to pierce through the thick mist in his eyes and swallow him whole!
My last moments, he pondered, before death claims me, body and car broken to pieces. My creditors will be vexed, Emma will still giggle as she climaxes, David will read my eulogy - very short. And I will slip into memory...too young, too tragic, too much egg tart...
What? His eyes jerked open.
‘Easy...try to lie still. You’re very weak.’
‘Emma?’
That damn mist, he cursed. Or am I in the clouds? Funny, I always assumed I’d go straight down, not up. Doesn’t sound like Emma. If that bloody maniac with the hammer and anvil would take a tea break, I might be able to think. Do dead people think...fantasise? Christ this is a hell-of-a-time to have a wet dream about Emma; the Pearly Gates beckoning and me pulling at her blouse!
He tried to blink some kind of clarity into the situation. Am I in heaven, are there really angels? But how could heaven have such god-awful wallpaper, lace curtains, a photo of my grandmother on the bedside table, and a beautiful woman’s face swaying in and out of focus like a gorgeous pendant of sweet light?
‘Please lie still Simon, try to conserve your strength.’
The voice and face slowly synchronised; long raven hair flowed over her shoulders as she leaned forward to mop his brow. The air was suddenly filled with scent of lavender. Her skin was pale and tight on her face, concern furrowing her brow. Soft grey eyes fired with pity for him. Her cool hand soothed the pain momentarily from his forehead, allowing Simon to relax into confusion.
He wasn’t dead - it just felt like it.
He thought of asking where he was, but that would be too crass. She knew his name and presumably what had happened to him, a good place to start.
‘What happened?’ he croaked.
The woman leaned back, a strained smile on her lips. ‘You had an accident. You’ve been ill, very ill. Doctor Shorely and I tended you and...thank God you’re through the worst.’ Her voice was reserved but not timid, intimating a strong character beneath her placid appearance.
Simon was grateful that God or fate had been on his side. He slowly raised his hand.
‘You’ve saved my life,' he said weakly. ‘I’m in your debt, Miss...’
She clasped his hand gently. ‘My name is Jenny...Jenny Summers.’
‘I’m very grateful to meet you, Miss Summers. The last thing I remember was losing control and being sure I was a dead man.’
‘Please call me Jenny. You were in quite a state when they found you. But it’s Doctor Shorely you should thank. He pulled you through in those first hours.’ Jenny fell silent for a moment, head bowed, as if reliving the scene, then smiled at him once more.
‘Now you’re going to be all right. Get your strength back and you’ll be as good as new.’
‘As if that was so good,’ Simon murmured. ‘How long have I been unconscious?’
‘Two days.’
‘Two days...ow!’ He winced as pain pinned his head to the pillow.
‘You really must rest!’ Jenny admonished.
‘In this state I can’t do much else.’
‘I’ll call the doctor shortly. He’ll be pleased that you’re awake again.’
‘He can have my headache if he wants it.’
‘Patience Simon...be easy on yourself,’ she mopped his brow once more. ‘Just be thankful you’re still alive.’
‘Yes you’re right. I remember losing control...I knew I was going to crash. Wait a bit...my car...it must be a right off!’
‘They towed it to the garage I....don’t know how bad the damage is.’
‘What did I hit?’
Jenny hesitated before replying, grimacing as if a distasteful thought had entered her mind, then she said quietly: ‘A headstone.’

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Simon was confined to bed rest for the next few days, on strict orders from the local doctor not to even think of getting up. A lot of unnecessary fuss Simon thought at first, but as he tried to raise himself the room somersaulted and nausea grabbed at his throat. Easy does it Simple Simon, he chided himself. This may not be Heaven, but Hell is one footstep out of this bed.
He lay, he slept, he drowsily replayed a confused scenario of belligerent bowel manoeuvres, sweaty panic, screeching brakes and certain death. But there again nothing is certain, even in out of control cars and seemingly immovable objects; oblivion one minute, Jenny’s pendant eyes the next. In a subconscious world Simon glided, a wingless bird, over the misty landscape of his life.
Glad to be alive...according to Jenny...yes...I suppose. Emma’s last blown kiss...David always so enthusiastic...honest as a Boy Scout’s sheepshank...his wife’s underwear already loose around the ends of my imagination...sinister Simon skulking around the perfumed forest of her enticing fanny...yes there I go, up to my buttocks in...what? Am I a traitor...deceiver? Jenny mopping the sinner’s brow...a straight physician patching me up so that I may sin again...lewd Simon...crude Simon...even headstones aren’t safe...saved...my life again...Saint Jenny taking a Jesus stroll around the stinking backwaters of my desire.
Drifting...nowhere...saved for what ?...why was I saved and not them?
Now...there was love...all for me...yes...I was never worthy...no time for farewell...no time for sorry...regret...all is regret...

Doctor Shorely was rotund, bespectacled and balding, with a gruff baritone voice which belied his Pickwickian appearance. On Friday mid morning he made his last visit. Jenny waited by an old walnut dressing table while Simon was examined. The good doctor prodded and poked, then sat back with a satisfied grunt. ‘You’ll do,’ he said, repacking his bag. ‘Get your strength up, take things easy for a while and you’ll be fine.’ He looked at Simon’s forehead. ‘Those bruises will go eventually, though you might get a few headaches for a time.’ He stood up. ‘I’m sure Jenny will look after you. She’s done a splendid job until now. Well, I’ll be off. I don’t need to call again. Think yourself lucky, Mr. Ashton, that you didn’t choke on your own vomit...and that you hit something which gave way!’
‘I’ll see you out doctor.’Jenny had already moved to the doorway.
‘Make sure he doesn’t over do it,’ he told her, then gave one last glance at Simon, ‘And you be careful what you eat in future!’

When Jenny returned she found Simon struggling with his trousers. ‘It might be better if you stayed in bed a little longer.’
‘I’m okay...no candidate for a marathon I admit, but if I lie in bed any longer I’ll seize up!’
Without a word she went to his aid, pulling his shirt on; Simon smelt that it had been freshly washed, and coloured slightly.
‘I must have been a mess when I was brought in.’
‘Everything has been cleaned.’
‘I’m even more in your debt.’
She gave him a questioning look. ‘There’s no debt. It’s just what you do when someone needs help.’ She deftly buttoned his shirt.
‘You’re well practised,’ he joked.
‘I had to do it for my father....after he had his stroke.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘There’s no need. It happens.’ She knelt down, helping with his shoes.
‘How...is he?’
‘He died two years ago.’
‘And...your mother?’
‘We buried father next to her.’
‘I’m...sorry.’
‘I told you, there’s no need. Everything has to die sooner or later.’

Simon felt grim. There are some conversations, he thought, that just avalanche the minute you open your mouth. She stood once more, eyes lowered, allowing Simon to admire her simple beauty. Was that the right word? Jenny was by no means plain, yet her prettiness had to be searched out. Extraordinary, the fine texture of her skin. She wore no make-up and didn’t need to. Her face was complete in itself; soft grey eyes, so sad and honest, a small mouth enveloped by pale lips. The hurt and vulnerable look she wore, gave no hint of her strong character beneath. Simon had no doubts of her beauty, or that something about her was affecting him. She was worlds away from Emma...almost a different species.
‘Do you feel strong enough for a walk? I’m sure the sunshine will make you feel better.’
‘Sounds fine to me.’ Simon stood up, gingerly taking a few steps, cursing inside as his legs refused to obey his wishes. ‘Stiff as a board,’ he quipped, awkwardly accepting Jenny’s help as she pulled his arm around her shoulder. ‘If we walk together for a moment you’ll loosen up.’ They stepped falteringly back and forth around the bedroom, Simon embarrassed, Jenny confused. His closeness was not unwelcome, though she dared not admit it to herself. Simon’s appearance was sombre; his thick black curly hair and dark eyes made him look formidable, but his manner was considerate. She’d spent the time of his sleep bathing sweat away from his ashen face, wondering what kind of person he would be when recovered. She was not disappointed, on the contrary, she was as taken with Simon as he with her.
She prayed fervently that he would leave as soon as possible.

On the way downstairs she said, ‘The Reverend has been waiting to meet you. Do you mind?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘I’ll see if he’s busy.’
They stopped outside the study. Simon waited while Jenny knocked and entered.
The Reverend John Stones was absorbed in his writing, bent over the large desk that dominated the room. Now in his sixty-first year, he could not remember how many sermons he had prepared. It always amazed him how much inspiration he could find in his old worn Bible for each Sunday. If his congregation ever listened, now that was another thing.
People always seemed to be busy with other things these days, he mused. No time for contemplation or inward glances. And the last two years had been...well...the Almighty’s motives were sometimes difficult to unravel.
He had a clergyman’s faith that God would make everything good, but an old man’s doubts if he could stand the strain. God’s love had stood firm through the horrors of war, and all the bloodshed perpetrated upon his simple Parish, but now his faith was being tested to the very limit.
His thoughts were interrupted by Jenny’s entrance.
‘So Jenny, how is the patient today?’ he asked in a deep, friendly voice.
‘Much better. I said you’d been waiting to meet him. Dr Shorely thinks Simon will make a full recovery...after a few days rest.’
The vicar’s brow furrowed. He leaned back in his old leather chair rubbing his jaw. ‘A few days you say. It will be difficult keeping him in the dark that long, especially with Sunday so close.’
‘Perhaps he won’t notice anything strange.’ Jenny’s tone was unconvincing.
‘We can both pray for that,’ the Reverend sighed. Jenny moved to the window at the far end of the study, her eyes absently taking in the sun topped wooded hills that gave Morton its name. The Spring sun was warm on her face, though she could not share its optimism.
‘I wonder,’ she said, almost to herself, ‘if it would be so bad if he did find out. I mean, he’s just passing through and we’ve nothing to be ashamed about.’
‘You sound as if you want to confess.’ The vicar rose to join her.
‘I'm tired John,’ she sighed, facing him. ‘Tired of everything...of all the pain I’ve brought you.’
‘You’re not to blame Jenny, you know that.’
‘Who is then?’ she cried.
‘Calm down Jenny. Remember...’ the reverend gestured towards the door. ‘I’m sure God...’
‘God? Hasn’t He done enough to us?’
‘Jenny!’ He held her shoulders firmly, looking stern. ‘You must never lose your faith. That’s all we have.’
Jenny met his eyes with a look of utter despair.
‘Where has your faith in me got you?’
Reverend Stones couldn’t answer. He hung his head momentarily then said that Simon had waited long enough, motioning Jenny to open the door. Outside Simon couldn’t help hearing Jenny’s exclamations, though none of it made any sense to him. As Jenny ushered him in, the Reverend Stones moved forward awkwardly, reaching out a long bony hand in greeting. He was a tall gaunt figure that put Simon more in mind of an undertaker than a vicar. Despite his age, the clergyman still had a thick crop of silver-grey hair. His pale blue eyes had witnessed too much sorrow to be content, but their compassion was obvious and genuine. ‘We’ve had no real chance to be introduced. I’m the Reverend John Stones.’ His voice was quiet yet firm and there was no doubting the welcome in his handshake. ‘I can see that Jenny has been tending to you satisfactorily.’
‘I’m sure she saved my life.’
‘That’s not true,’ Jenny protested, her face reddening. ‘It’s Doctor Shorely you should thank.’
‘He patched me up but your nursing pulled me through.’
‘Either way,’ the Reverend intervened, ‘she’s very special.’ He embraced her shoulders affectionately. ‘She runs the house, keeps it all in order and never complains. I’d be lost without her.’
‘I can well believe that. I’m...sorry to have caused so much trouble. Whatever damage there is I’ll gladly pay for.’
‘Oh, there’s no need to worry about that Simon,’ the Reverend smiled. ‘We’re just glad you’re well again. You must be eager to return home to your family.’
‘We...had to go through your belongings to find out your identity,’ Jenny explained. ‘But there was nothing with a name of anyone we could contact...not even a photograph.’
‘I know...I’m pretty much of a loner you could say.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll be ready to go home in no time.’ The Reverend gave Jenny a knowing look. ‘Do you live far from here?’
‘London. I have a flat just off Baker Street.’
‘London is so big,’ Jenny said. ‘A good place to get lost in.’
‘You get used to it,’ Simon said.
‘Far too hectic for us I fear,’ Reverend Stones concluded.
‘I was just going to take Simon for a breath of air in the garden,’ Jenny said. The vicar thought it a splendid idea. ‘And afterwards we can have some tea. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on with my sermon for Sunday.’