A Perfect Hero by Caroline Anderson Page A

to his feet and straightened slowly. ‘Suppose we’d better go and see him, then. Can you give me a few minutes to get ready?’
    ‘Of course—can I help?’
    He snorted. ‘Think I can still manage the bathroom on my own, my dear!’ he said with a chuckle.
    Clare smiled. ‘Yes, I imagine you can, Pop. I’ll wait for you out here. Call me when you’re ready.’
    When he appeared she helped him into her little car and drove back to the hospital, parking as close as she could to save his legs. Then she led him up to the ward.
    Mary O’Brien was just coming out of Michael’s room, and smiled at them. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Michael!’ she said brightly.
    ‘Pop!’ Michael turned from his position by the window and swung over to them on his crutches, his face working with emotion. ‘It’s good to see you!’ His voice was unsteady.
    ‘Hello, old son,’ Pop said gruffly. ‘Heard you were in the wars again.’
    Michael sagged on to the edge of the bed and shot Clare a bleak look.
    ‘Would you mind leaving us on our own?’ he asked distantly.
    ‘No, of course not. Here, Pop, sit yourself down on this chair—that’s it. Would you like some tea?’
    ‘No, thank you,’ Michael said emphatically, and with a brief nod she left them alone.
    She waited in Sister’s office, watching through the open door. After nearly an hour the door of Michael’s room opened and he stuck his head out.
    ‘He’s ready to go now,’ he told her, and disappeared back inside.
    She followed him into the room. His grandfather was still sitting on the chair, his face stony.
    ‘Hello, Pop,’ she said kindly. ‘Ready for off?’
    ‘Give me a hand up,’ he demanded querulously.
    She glanced at Michael but he looked away, so with a tiny shrug she took Pop’s arm and helped him to his feet.
    He paused at the door and turned. ‘You’re a bloody fool, son.’
    ‘Bloody fool or not, Pop, it’s my future, and I have a right to some say in it.’
    ‘I think it’s a grave mistake.’
    ‘So it might be, but I don’t think so,’ Michael said heavily, and turned away.
    ‘Goodnight,’ said Clare quietly, but he ignored her.
    The drive back was tense and fraught, each of them preoccupied with their thoughts. Clare was worried about Michael, and about the sudden gulf that seemed to have opened up between them. What had she said or done? Nothing that she could think of, but he was treating her like a leper—or was it himself he was treating like a leper? God knows, she thought. And what about Pop’s parting shot? What was all that about?
    Pop was obviously upset by his visit to Michael, but Clare already know him well enough to know he would tell her anything he wanted her to know. In his own words, she’d have to learn to control her curiosity.
    She declined his offer of a drink, as it was already getting late and she had a long drive back to the cottage. It was dark by the time she turned into the gate, and was surprised to see a light on in the kitchen.
    ‘How odd,’ she said to herself. ‘I must have left it on last night.’
    Letting herself in without any thought of an intruder, she went straight into the kitchen as usual, and jerked instantly to a halt.
    Michael was sitting sprawled in his usual place in the carver at the end of the table, and with a friendly smile he ambled to his feet and strolled towards her, his tanned, hair-strewn legs naked beneath old, comfortable shorts.
    Her hand flew to her throat and her eyes widened in confusion.
    ‘Michael …?’
    ‘Sorry to startle you—we haven’t met. I’m Andrew, Michael’s brother. And you must be Clare.’
    She couldn’t take her eyes off his legs. They were just like Michael’s—literally identical. Except for one detail.
    They were perfect.
    Clare didn’t even realise she was crying until Andrew tipped up her chin and wiped her eyes with a soft, immaculately laundered handkerchief.
    ‘Hey, I’m sorry. Did I give you a fright? I didn’t realise you were