Lydia drove along the busy street, looking for the turn she needed, listened to a favourite mix of music that filled the car with sound, but not so loud she couldn’t think. She sang along to some tunes that she knew, old as some of them were, classics that her parents would have danced to. They were young at heart, still, just as the man she was calling on had moments when he too acted in ways that defied the years. Her past attendances had reassured her superiors that a home visit posed no threat, and she could continue to do that on her own.
She had reached the conclusion that she looked forward to calling on him at the end of another busy day, meeting an often-cantankerous man who had an agile mind but failing strength, a guy who had pictures of himself when he was younger, robust, and an active serviceman. The framed images of him hung on one wall of his meticulously tidy bedroom, a standard that was to be seen throughout his ground floor apartment
‘Let your standards slip and the rest soon follows’ seemed to be his guiding principle and that she sometimes heard him say. His clothes were always spotlessly clean, his trousers pressed, and even his leather slippers had been polished. They almost gleamed.
She had soon heard that Richard Ballard was a proud man, but he did not wish others to think that it was out of arrogance or vanity. He had his reasons, with no children or close family members to turn to, and he had been a widower for some time. In spite of that, Richard continued to look after himself as best he could and following heart surgery. The wound had taken a long time to heal and had left a crimson mark on his body, his white chest hair stark against it. Tending to him was but one of the reasons that she called in at the end of her day.
‘My lass would have done this,’ Richard had told her in his gravelly voice the last time she had seen him, and an unmistakable note of gratitude to be heard, ‘but she’s gone from me now…as you know.’
‘Yes, I do, Richard…but you don’t have to tell me everything.’
‘I feel that I do have to tell you. Who else is there?’ It was aid as a simple matter of fact and not to arouse her sympathy.
She had heard the despair in his voice, seen him look away for an instant at a picture of his Betty, as he called her. Elizabeth had been taken early, with Parkinson’s Disease; that much she did know, and he volunteered no more information.
Richard would brighten as she talked to him, cleaning his wound and putting a light bandage over it once she had finished. It was never to be seen there when she called in days later. When she spoke of it he would wave a hand to dismiss her mild rebuke.
‘It got to itch so I took it off. Now, don’t fuss so…you’re too young and pretty to be doing that. It gets to be a bad habit…’
‘If you say so, Richard. I thought you ex-military guys stuck by the rules…don’t let your standards slip. I don’t either, where it concerns my patients…you especially.’
‘You’ve got me there, girl,’ he had laughed on hearing her throw back at him one of his sayings. ‘Am I so special?’
She heard the tease in his voice. ‘Call me Lydia, not girl…I’m way past you calling me that.’
‘And you already call me Richard…so we’re even,’ he winked.
She had known what was on his mind, that she could think what she liked if he was minded to flirt with her which it seemed, he wanted to do. Her nurse’s tunic shaped her, the sky-blue fabric, with its white trim to the short sleeves, and patch pockets, still so feminine and the light grey slacks a stylish complement, its hems hiding somewhat clunky regular issue shoes.
Finding a parking slot, she soon took her bag from the boot of the car and walked along the path, through the screen of shrubs, and out onto a landscaped area laid out to a recently cut lawn. She knew his place well enough, but the sun-doors to his living room were open and she could hear the muffled sound of his piano. Richard was considerate enough not to want to bother his neighbours with the sound, but he resolutely refused to give up his playing.
On a mischievous whim, she decided on surprising Richard and kept out of the room’s field of vision. She stepped slowly to the edge of the window and peered around the corner, noticed that his focus was entirely on the piano’s keys and that he had drawn on his reserves of strength to play, one hand flicking away the tumble of his black hair, surprisingly long, and streaked with grey. The man was still surprisingly handsome, his dark blue cord shirt matched his trousers, and a white and blue patterned shemagh scarf bought, so many years ago he had told her, when serving in the Persian Gulf. It leant him a rebellious and captivating air.
His neatly clipped beard and moustache were creased by his smile, out of evident pleasure to be able to still deploy his skills on the keyboard. Her heart went out to him. What had happened, the loss of a wife and then the debilitating effects of major surgery, weren’t going to bring this man down.
She clapped softly as Richard finished and she peered round the corner of the window as she did so, laughing at seeing him caught unawares. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt you playing, Richard…’
‘And here you are,’ he smiled, twisting on the seat to look at her and reaching for his favourite walking stick, the wood gnarled and bleached by the sun. ‘I had to do something while I waited for you to appear…’
‘Don’t tell me that you miss me?’
‘But I do, and I look forward to seeing you again…even if you torture me with that dressing you have to put on…’
‘And you take off…’
‘Not this time as you’ll soon find out.’ Richard stood up and closed the space between them. ‘Don’t just stand there, Lydia, but come in. I’ll close the doors and shut out the world beyond…’
His ways with her were captivating once more and she did as he asked, knew better than to offer help. There were times, when she drove to see him, when she had fantasized about him and how it would feel to be kissed by this man, to feel his lips and beard pressing against her mouth and face, how he would hold her and, perhaps, tug open her tunic and see the woman she was underneath her clothes. The pictures in his room had suggested, often enough, who he might become; an attentive man and accomplished lover and that the look of his lost wife upon him had made clear.
It was but a fantasy and that she knew would remain an empty one, but to hold that thought also encouraged her in their dealings.
‘I’ll go lay out my things in your room, shall I, Richard?’
‘Yes, do that. I won’t be long…torture, even at your hands, awaits me.’ Lydia turned for a moment to watch him, noticed his sprightly steps as he worked, his walking stick no more than a prop.
Had the knowledge of her attendance boosted him, and persuaded Richard to wear something more dashing than before? She should feel flattered that he had done so and now walked into his bedroom before Richard noticed that her attention had been on him.
She felt small against him as Richard entered the bedroom, was seen to tug away his Arab shemagh and toss it over the back of a chair set to one side of a tall mahogany chest of drawers, the wood a deep polished brown; an oval mirror, with its carved rim, hanging above it.
‘Just your shirt, take of your shirt…’ she asked needlessly, meeting his gaze upon her as she slipped some sterile gloves over her slender fingered hands.
‘I’ve done this before…’ he said on touching her arm for an instant. ‘Leave me with some skin, won’t you?’
The way he spoke it was clear that he hated what she would do. ‘You know that it’s not my job…or in me…to do that, Richard…hurt you.’
She watched him as he kicked of his slippers. took them and placed them by the chair. The rustle of his shirt soon followed, and she felt it brush her arm as he held it out to her, had only to half turn and take it from him, Richard standing very close. The bed creaked as he lay back on the counterpane and she turned, stepped lightly towards him. ‘I’ll get a damp flannel…’
‘Do that…I hate this part of it…have taken it slow, before now, taking the blasted bandage off. You’ve not got the time…’
Lydia was soon by him, looked down and met his unwavering look upon her. His ribcage was to be clearly seen under his skin, the hollow of his stomach, the spiral of greying hair that disappeared under his waist band, his chest covered in a downy mat of hair and his nipples standing hard and proud, the cool of the room making them so.
‘I’ve got time, Richard…more than enough time,’ she assured him, her touch gentle as the flannel was pressed to the bandage, the fabric not as stained as from previous calls. She pulled on a curling edge of the bandage, did that slowly and felt it give way, then some more, one hand tugging on the strip, the other offering a restraining touch. ‘How’s that…gentle enough for you?’
‘Go on…get it over with girl!’
‘Lydia…we’ve been here before, Richard, haven’t we?’ she smiled, bending closer and looking into his eyes. The time might yet come when she liked the way he called her ‘girl’, but she didn’t like to be reminded of the age gap between them.
‘But not with how I feel about you now…’
‘You’ve got other scars on your body…and in your mind.’
‘And the nurses then weren’t nearly so pretty…I assure you,’ he retorted. ‘And as far as my mind’s concerned, help me with that…only finish it…tell me the worst.’
‘I’m here…you’re always the last one on my list for the day. It means I don’t have to rush…at anything and your wound is much better…I think you’re through the worst.’
‘Good…it’s what I hoped to hear. I haven’t wanted to scratch it so you’ve seen the bandage still on me.’
She had seen him grip the counterpane as she tugged on all of the moistened fabric, felt the resistance of his hair before it came away, one hand offering a consoling touch as part of the scar tissue clung to the bandage. ‘Sorry, Richard…sorry. The worst is over…it really is over.’