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Jack said, ‘I ought to throw you out. I would too, if it wasn’t so damn cold.’ Making up his mind, he turned away and put on his safety belt, started the car and began to drive again. ‘Don’t think that I’m letting you get away with this. As soon as I possibly can I’m going to hand you over to the police and let them deal with you.’

      With a great inner sigh of relief Clare settled back in the seat, but stayed sitting up, just pulling the rug around her again. Looking out of the windows, she could see no houses anywhere, just expanses of open fields and sometimes a few trees, their branches already white with snow. The man, she could see, was giving all his attention to his driving. Once the car skidded and it looked as if they were headed for a ditch, but he quickly straightened it, then gave a grunt of satisfaction as he saw a farmhouse and turned up the lane that ran along the side of it. The lane was short—about half a mile—then they came to another house, a smaller one, built of grey stone and with a copse of fir trees to the side. There was another car parked outside.

      ‘Stay here,’ the driver ordered, and didn’t even glance at Clare as he hurried to the house.

      The door was unlocked. Jack pushed it open and, seeing the landing light was on, ran upstairs. ‘Mrs Murray?’

      She was in his father’s room, and turned with a great look of relief. ‘Thank goodness you’ve come. The doctor’s been and he’s left some medicine.’ Already she was reaching for her coat.

      Glancing at the bed, Jack saw his father was sleeping. They went out on the landing before he said, ‘How is he?’

      She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry—he’s bad. Here, I’ve written down the doctor’s number. He’ll be able to tell you more than I can, although you might have trouble getting him; everyone around seems to be down with this flu.’

      ‘You’ll be wanting to get back to your family. How are they?’

      ‘Oh, they’re young and strong; they’ll recover.’ She stopped short and flushed a little. And Jack, seeing it, suddenly realised with a sick feeling of shock what she was afraid to tell him.

      ‘Is he so ill?’ he said faintly, hoping against hope that she would deny it. But she gave a brief nod and went ahead of him down the stairs. ‘I’ll drive you home,’ he said mechanically, his brain trying to come to terms with it but refusing to accept such terrible news.

      ‘No, I have the car.’ Mrs Murray looked out of the window. ‘It’s a good job you got here when you did; the lane soon gets blocked with snow and my husband’s too ill to get the tractor out to clear it.’

      She left him, and Jack went back to his father’s room. He sat by the bed and took hold of his father’s limp hand. For the first time he realised how aged the man looked. He was an old man, but Jack had never realised it before. His skin was very white and his breathing was laboured, unnatural. Jack sat beside him, his thoughts full of regret and sadness, and it was a long time before he remembered the girl in the car.

      

      Clare saw the woman hurry out of the house and the car drive away. She waited for the man to come back, peering out through the ever-thickening snow. Now that the engine was turned off the car began to get cold again. And she was hungry, so hungry. Still the man didn’t come back. At last, driven by hunger and by the warmth and shelter that the house promised, Clare got out of the car, gasping as the wind cut into her and the snow covered her shoes. Hurrying to the door, she went to knock, then hesitated and tried the knob. The door opened and she went quickly inside, afraid of making the man angry again but too cold and hungry not to risk it.

      Closing the door, she looked apprehensively round, expecting any moment to have someone come up and demand to know what she was doing there. But the hall, with its black and white chequered floor, was empty. Fleetingly Clare noticed that it held the weirdest furniture and ornaments she’d ever seen, but then she saw an open door at the end of the passage from which came the smell of something cooking—a rich, savoury smell that had her through the door and into the kitchen in two seconds flat.

      The delicious smell came from a large pan that simmered on the range. Broth? Stew? Soup? Hardly able to control the shaking eagerness of her hands, Clare found a bowl and spooned a large helping into it. She was so starved that she had eaten three helpings before she even bothered to look about her. The kitchen was large, well-lit, and beautifully warm. Again the furniture seemed different—it wasn’t just square and utilitarian, there were curves and flowing lines, and the chairs round the table had very high backs, high enough to lean her head against. There was a big dresser against one wall and on its shelves was lots of china in unusual shapes and in bright, bold colours: orange, yellow and vivid blue. The vibrant colours added to the warmth and welcome of the room, and brought a smile to her pale cheeks.

      She glanced down at the bowl she’d been using and guiltily went to look in the pan. It was only a quarter full now. Clare gulped, wondering if she’d eaten most of the food intended for a whole family. She began to wonder, too, where the car driver had got to—but just then heard a door closing somewhere, and then rapid footsteps coming down the stairs. Nervously she went out into the hall.

      Jack saw her as he came round the bend in the stairs, and stopped short in surprise. He had hardly taken her in before and was too full of shock over his father to do so now. All he knew was that the girl was a worry, an inconvenience he definitely didn’t want, especially now. Annoyance making his voice harsh, he said, ‘I told you to wait in the car.’

      ‘It was cold.’

      He saw that she was still wearing the anorak, that it was dirty and stained, as were the jeans that had made him think at first that she was a boy. Jack’s nose wrinkled a little in distaste as he came down into the hall. ‘When did you run away?’

      It was impossible to deny that she was a runaway, but Clare couldn’t see why he had to know, so she didn’t answer.

      Jack sighed. ‘Have you at least got a name?’

      She hesitated, then said, ‘It’s Clare.’

      He was surprised, expecting her—if she’d told him at all—to have a far more common name. But perhaps she’d made it up. Deciding that she had, his face hardened. ‘Clare what?’ he demanded brusquely.

      Not liking his tone, Clare’s chin came up a little. ‘Smith,’ she said shortly.

      His eyes went to her face at that, and registered a pair of defiant hazel eyes. With an angry exclamation he went past her into the kitchen. ‘You’re going to have to say who you are some time, you know. If not to me, then to the police.’ Noticing the bowl on the table, he said wryly, ‘I see you made yourself at home.’

      ‘I’m sorry. I was hungry.’

      He glanced in the pan, then said, ‘You may as well finish it off.’

      Clare didn’t argue, immediately coming to fill her bowl again, but she managed to say, ‘Don’t you want any? It’s very good.’

      ‘No. I’ll just make myself some coffee.’ He gave her an assessing look, surprised by the educated tones of her voice. He’d expected her to be from a different background. ‘How old are you?’

      ‘Twenty-two,’ Clare lied.

      Jack gave a short laugh. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that?’ He had picked up the kettle but turned with it in his hands to look at her. She was, he realised, very thin and pale, and there were dark shadows round her eyes. She looked like a Victorian waif, thrown out into the snow. Roughly he said, ‘You look about fourteen.’

      ‘I’m not!’ Clare said indignantly. ‘I’m twenty-two.’ She caught his eyebrows rising disbelievingly. ‘Well—twenty, anyway.’ But that was still a lie because she was only just nineteen.

      She took her bowl to the table and a few minutes later he came to sit opposite with his mug of coffee. ‘You,’ Jack said shortly, ‘are a damn nuisance. My father is upstairs and he’s...’ He hesitated and found that he was unable to say ‘dying,’ so said

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