Alan woke to the soft tapping of raindrops on the bedroom window. It was still dark and his mind was groggy with sleep. He lay on the right of the double bed, his side, against the wall - habit not necessity. Not anymore. He reached out to the empty side of the bed, only cold sheets and a fluffed pillow, where she had lain. His hand recoiled, hard fact callously rejecting memories of love and warmth. Debra was gone now. Gone forever. He would only see her in photographs, camcorder memories, and in restless dreams that left his pillow wet with tears, and his heart empty.
It was a month since the cancer had taken her. It had had taken her young -- only forty-eight -- in turn his friend, lover, fiancé, wife, mother of his -- their -- child. Some part of him was comforted in the knowledge that the time they'd had together in their lives was precious, and he had been lucky to have her. But another part, the bitter voice in his head, screamed at the unfairness of it - that such a beautiful loving woman be taken so young, while others -- criminals, druggies, rapists, paedophiles - the dregs of society - seemed to live to ripe old ages. Only the good die young -- wasn't that how it went?
He turned to face the wall, tried to turn away from painful memories, the gutting sense of loss. He wanted to sleep again for that was the only refuge from the pain, if only a temporary one. Waking to an empty house was hell. It no longer felt like home, rather a prison where he tormented himself with ghosts of memories played out over and over in his grieving mind.
Only this weekend, it was not empty. Beth, his -- no, 'their' daughter had come to stay. She'd left her husband with her kids, Jack and Amy, back at Milton Keynes, and come up to London to stay at her old family home. She was worried about him, and although he had tried to fob her off, tell her he was fine, the waver in his voice betrayed him, and she had insisted. She was staying in her old room, where she had grown up, only now it was the guest room as Debra had designated it.
He had to admit, he was glad really, Beth's imminent visit had galvanised him to tidy up the house, focus on cleaning for a whole day -- a semblance of normality.
Beth had been a rock though out the whole period, spending much of her time with her mum as the cancer increased and Debra weakened. When the time came Beth had arranged the funeral service -- throwing herself into busy role of organiser -- perhaps that was her coping mechanism. Alan felt it should have been him taking the lead, but the loss of Debra was more devastating and complete than he could have imagined. Even though he knew it was coming, when she went, emaciated and defeated by the disease it was as though Alan had died too.
Alan closed his eyes. Let his mind drift back into the fog of sleep. The rain beat a gentle tattoo on the window pain that was somehow comforting, a reminder that life went on. The world outside still turned.
Then, an awareness of movement by the bed. Alan kept his eyes shut, suspecting it was a dream, then he felt a depression on the other side of the mattress, heard the duvet pulled back the sound of someone getting in.
'Debra?' he mumbled, his senses confused . 'It's just me, dad,' Beth's voice sounded, gentle, calming.
Alan said nothing.
'I couldn't get back to sleep - the rain . . .'
'I know,' he mumbled.
'You okay?' she asked, lying next to him.
Silence.
'I mean, with me here?'
'Of course,' he said, feeling the pull of sleep lessen.
'I mean in bed,' she said, awkwardness in her voice.
'I know. It's okay, Beth.'
She cuddled up to him, her breath warm on the back of his neck, the warmth of her body seeping through their night clothes, heating his back. It was almost as if it were Debra. He sighed.
Beth put an arm around his chest, and squeezed a hug. 'It's been a while since I got into this bed,' Beth remarked lightly.
'You were never out of it when you were little.' Alan replied, feeling warm with the sudden memory.
'Me, you, mum and teddy,' she said, dreamily.
'And you always in the middle,' Alan said, remembering how she would break up Alan and Debra's embrace, and thrust herself in the warm gap she created.
'All kids go in the middle. Jack and Amy always do.'
'How are they taking it?'
'Kids are pretty tough at five and three, they ask after Nana a lot, but I tell them she's up in heaven keeping watch over us all, they seem pretty content with that.'
Alan smiled at the notion, and wished he believed in heaven, in an afterlife. Such comfort belief must bring. He was aware suddenly that he had an erection. It was nothing to do with Beth, just one of those involuntary muscular reactions men got in the mornings. Morning glory, Debra had playfully called it. Awkward, but it would go down on its own soon enough.
'How are you coping, dad?' Beth asked, her fingers idly playing with his chest hair through a gap in his buttoned pyjama top.
Alan sighed, 'I'm . . . I'm trying, but it is hard - so bloody hard. I can't stop thinking about your mum, and in that state I can't do anything, and I know in order to be able to function -- to go on, I need to start thinking about other things -- going back to work, seeing friends, but I feel like I'm betraying her memory if I start to let that go.'
'Oh dad, you're not. She wouldn't want you to suffer like this,' Beth said, and he knew that she was right.
'I know, it's just I don't know how to cope now she's gone.'
Beth was quiet for while, her fingers idly stoking his chest. She'd popped a button for greater access. His erection had still not gone down, and he wondered if he should ask her to stop, or perhaps guide her hand away. But he did neither, for needed her touch more.
'You know,' Beth said. 'Mum's not gone. Not really gone.'
'What do you mean?' he asked, puzzled.
'Remember when I was about eight or nine, and I asked you about God and heaven and stuff, and you told me you didn't believe in all that?'
'Ye-es,' Alan said, unsure where she was going with this.
'Well, remember I asked you about what happens when we die, and you said in a way we live on, but not as some ghost-like spirit in heaven, but we live on in people's memories and through our children?'
He turned onto his back, his face to her. He could just make out her features in the grey dawn light that brightened the curtains and infiltrated the room.
She kept her hand resting on his chest.
'I remember. So?'
'Well, in a way doesn't mum live on through me, and in Jack and Amy?'
'I suppose,' he said, touched by her efforts to penetrate the darkness in his mind. He looked at his daughter who so resembled her mother around about the time they'd started dating. His hand touched Beth's soft blonde hair, and he inhaled her scent. God, she even smelt like her mother. If he closed his eyes it could be her. Alive again, and by him in bed where she belonged. He tried to push the tempting illusion from his mind.
'I think . . .' Beth began, then tutted in sudden irritation. 'Sorry, dad, insect bite on my ankle, bloody thing gets itchy.' She moved her hand to scratch the offending itch, but in so doing, happened to brush against her father's erection.
'Dad! Have you got a boner?' she laughed, seemingly shocked.
'Sorry,' he said, embarrassed, trying to shift away but not really being able to because of the wall. 'It's not you, it's just a . . .'
'I know,' Beth laughed. 'Morning glory.' She giggled again, embarrassed for her father.
It was Alan's turn to be shocked. 'How did you hear of that term?'
She scratched her itch, then returned her hand to his chest. 'Didn't you think mum and me ever talked?' she teased.
'Yes, but not about . . . not about . . .'
'Dad,' she chided, as if telling him off for treating her like a kid. 'Mothers and daughters do talk you know, or how would I know what to expect on my wedding night -- or in the morning after for that matter?'
Alan gave in to his daughters teasing, acknowledging a father's naivety with laughter. That teasing sense of humour - she was so like her mother. They both laughed, and the sound was a soothing balm on his emotional wound.
'That's the first time you've laughed since . . .' Beth left the words hanging, unsure how long it had been. 'Well, too long anyway.'
'I'm so lucky to have you,' he said, suddenly overcome with the sensation of intense love for his daughter. He hugged her, and she kissed his shoulder, her hand popping another button, this time near to his stomach.
He sensed a line was being approached. On the other side of that line was taboo - what should never be.
Beth's hand on under his pyjama top stroked his chest.
For a long moment neither father nor daughter spoke, and in that moment something passed between them. Alan looking into his daughter's eyes realised she too knew they were close to line that should not be crossed between a father and daughter. Still her hand moved - soft on his chest, comforting, but now also stimulating. In the gloom of the bedroom, he sensed in her eyes she was waiting for a response - that her touch was a proposition. That more could happen.
He took a deep breath. 'Beth . . .' he began.
'Dad,' she cut him short, anticipating his disapproval. 'It's okay, dad. Really it's okay,' she said, her voice barely a whisper, but Alan detected a tremor of nervousness in her words.
Outside the patter of morning rain on the window continued. Beth undid the remaining buttons, and pushed back the pyjama flaps exposing his chest to her touch.
'Beth . . .' he said, his tone firm now.
She moved her head closer to his, her eyes wide and large this close to him. She had her mother's eyes. 'Mum said, I was to look after you, dad. She said I wasn't to let you grow into a lonely old widower, rattling about the house on your own.'
'Yes, but she didn't mean . . .'
'Sometimes it takes more than words.'
Alan opened his mouth t
Alan woke to the soft tapping of raindrops on the bedroom window. It was still dark and his mind was groggy with sleep. He lay on the right of the double bed, his side, against the wall - habit not necessity. Not anymore. He reached out to the empty side of the bed, only cold sheets and a fluffed pillow, where she had lain. His hand recoiled, hard fact callously rejecting memories of love and warmth. Debra was gone now. Gone forever. He would only see her in photographs, camcorder memories, and in restless dreams that left his pillow wet with tears, and his heart empty.
It was a month since the cancer had taken her. It had had taken her young -- only forty-eight -- in turn his friend, lover, fiancé, wife, mother of his -- their -- child. Some part of him was comforted in the knowledge that the time they'd had together in their lives was precious, and he had been lucky to have her. But another part, the bitter voice in his head, screamed at the unfairness of it - that such a beautiful loving woman be taken so young, while others -- criminals, druggies, rapists, paedophiles - the dregs of society - seemed to live to ripe old ages. Only the good die young -- wasn't that how it went?
He turned to face the wall, tried to turn away from painful memories, the gutting sense of loss. He wanted to sleep again for that was the only refuge from the pain, if only a temporary one. Waking to an empty house was hell. It no longer felt like home, rather a prison where he tormented himself with ghosts of memories played out over and over in his grieving mind.
Only this weekend, it was not empty. Beth, his -- no, 'their' daughter had come to stay. She'd left her husband with her kids, Jack and Amy, back at Milton Keynes, and come up to London to stay at her old family home. She was worried about him, and although he had tried to fob her off, tell her he was fine, the waver in his voice betrayed him, and she had insisted. She was staying in her old room, where she had grown up, only now it was the guest room as Debra had designated it.
He had to admit, he was glad really, Beth's imminent visit had galvanised him to tidy up the house, focus on cleaning for a whole day -- a semblance of normality.
Beth had been a rock though out the whole period, spending much of her time with her mum as the cancer increased and Debra weakened. When the time came Beth had arranged the funeral service -- throwing herself into busy role of organiser -- perhaps that was her coping mechanism. Alan felt it should have been him taking the lead, but the loss of Debra was more devastating and complete than he could have imagined. Even though he knew it was coming, when she went, emaciated and defeated by the disease it was as though Alan had died too.
Alan closed his eyes. Let his mind drift back into the fog of sleep. The rain beat a gentle tattoo on the window pain that was somehow comforting, a reminder that life went on. The world outside still turned.
Then, an awareness of movement by the bed. Alan kept his eyes shut, suspecting it was a dream, then he felt a depression on the other side of the mattress, heard the duvet pulled back the sound of someone getting in.
'Debra?' he mumbled, his senses confused . 'It's just me, dad,' Beth's voice sounded, gentle, calming.
Alan said nothing.
'I couldn't get back to sleep - the rain . . .'
'I know,' he mumbled.
'You okay?' she asked, lying next to him.
Silence.
'I mean, with me here?'
'Of course,' he said, feeling the pull of sleep lessen.
'I mean in bed,' she said, awkwardness in her voice.
'I know. It's okay, Beth.'
She cuddled up to him, her breath warm on the back of his neck, the warmth of her body seeping through their night clothes, heating his back. It was almost as if it were Debra. He sighed.
Beth put an arm around his chest, and squeezed a hug. 'It's been a while since I got into this bed,' Beth remarked lightly.
'You were never out of it when you were little.' Alan replied, feeling warm with the sudden memory.
'Me, you, mum and teddy,' she said, dreamily.
'And you always in the middle,' Alan said, remembering how she would break up Alan and Debra's embrace, and thrust herself in the warm gap she created.
'All kids go in the middle. Jack and Amy always do.'
'How are they taking it?'
'Kids are pretty tough at five and three, they ask after Nana a lot, but I tell them she's up in heaven keeping watch over us all, they seem pretty content with that.'
Alan smiled at the notion, and wished he believed in heaven, in an afterlife. Such comfort belief must bring. He was aware suddenly that he had an erection. It was nothing to do with Beth, just one of those involuntary muscular reactions men got in the mornings. Morning glory, Debra had playfully called it. Awkward, but it would go down on its own soon enough.
'How are you coping, dad?' Beth asked, her fingers idly playing with his chest hair through a gap in his buttoned pyjama top.
Alan sighed, 'I'm . . . I'm trying, but it is hard - so bloody hard. I can't stop thinking about your mum, and in that state I can't do anything, and I know in order to be able to function -- to go on, I need to start thinking about other things -- going back to work, seeing friends, but I feel like I'm betraying her memory if I start to let that go.'
'Oh dad, you're not. She wouldn't want you to suffer like this,' Beth said, and he knew that she was right.
'I know, it's just I don't know how to cope now she's gone.'
Beth was quiet for while, her fingers idly stoking his chest. She'd popped a button for greater access. His erection had still not gone down, and he wondered if he should ask her to stop, or perhaps guide her hand away. But he did neither, for needed her touch more.
'You know,' Beth said. 'Mum's not gone. Not really gone.'
'What do you mean?' he asked, puzzled.
'Remember when I was about eight or nine, and I asked you about God and heaven and stuff, and you told me you didn't believe in all that?'
'Ye-es,' Alan said, unsure where she was going with this.
'Well, remember I asked you about what happens when we die, and you said in a way we live on, but not as some ghost-like spirit in heaven, but we live on in people's memories and through our children?'
He turned onto his back, his face to her. He could just make out her features in the grey dawn light that brightened the curtains and infiltrated the room.
She kept her hand resting on his chest.
'I remember. So?'
'Well, in a way doesn't mum live on through me, and in Jack and Amy?'
'I suppose,' he said, touched by her efforts to penetrate the darkness in his mind. He looked at his daughter who so resembled her mother around about the time they'd started dating. His hand touched Beth's soft blonde hair, and he inhaled her scent. God, she even smelt like her mother. If he closed his eyes it could be her. Alive again, and by him in bed where she belonged. He tried to push the tempting illusion from his mind.
'I think . . .' Beth began, then tutted in sudden irritation. 'Sorry, dad, insect bite on my ankle, bloody thing gets itchy.' She moved her hand to scratch the offending itch, but in so doing, happened to brush against her father's erection.
'Dad! Have you got a boner?' she laughed, seemingly shocked.
'Sorry,' he said, embarrassed, trying to shift away but not really being able to because of the wall. 'It's not you, it's just a . . .'
'I know,' Beth laughed. 'Morning glory.' She giggled again, embarrassed for her father.
It was Alan's turn to be shocked. 'How did you hear of that term?'
She scratched her itch, then returned her hand to his chest. 'Didn't you think mum and me ever talked?' she teased.
'Yes, but not about . . . not about . . .'
'Dad,' she chided, as if telling him off for treating her like a kid. 'Mothers and daughters do talk you know, or how would I know what to expect on my wedding night -- or in the morning after for that matter?'
Alan gave in to his daughters teasing, acknowledging a father's naivety with laughter. That teasing sense of humour - she was so like her mother. They both laughed, and the sound was a soothing balm on his emotional wound.
'That's the first time you've laughed since . . .' Beth left the words hanging, unsure how long it had been. 'Well, too long anyway.'
'I'm so lucky to have you,' he said, suddenly overcome with the sensation of intense love for his daughter. He hugged her, and she kissed his shoulder, her hand popping another button, this time near to his stomach.
He sensed a line was being approached. On the other side of that line was taboo - what should never be.
Beth's hand on under his pyjama top stroked his chest.
For a long moment neither father nor daughter spoke, and in that moment something passed between them. Alan looking into his daughter's eyes realised she too knew they were close to line that should not be crossed between a father and daughter. Still her hand moved - soft on his chest, comforting, but now also stimulating. In the gloom of the bedroom, he sensed in her eyes she was waiting for a response - that her touch was a proposition. That more could happen.
He took a deep breath. 'Beth . . .' he began.
'Dad,' she cut him short, anticipating his disapproval. 'It's okay, dad. Really it's okay,' she said, her voice barely a whisper, but Alan detected a tremor of nervousness in her words.
Outside the patter of morning rain on the window continued. Beth undid the remaining buttons, and pushed back the pyjama flaps exposing his chest to her touch.
'Beth . . .' he said, his tone firm now.
She moved her head closer to his, her eyes wide and large this close to him. She had her mother's eyes. 'Mum said, I was to look after you, dad. She said I wasn't to let you grow into a lonely old widower, rattling about the house on your own.'
'Yes, but she didn't mean . . .'
'Sometimes it takes more than words.'
Alan opened his mouth t
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