Jack crept into the sunlit bedroom to check on his father, and saw Giles senior sprawled in the bed tucked close to the bolster pillow. His limbs twisted round the cushion in a loving embrace. Jack smiled just like always and then crossed the room to the French windows, flinging them open on the fresh June morning.

His mother smiled her special “good morning” smile from her portrait and he only just stopped himself from greeting her. Let his father do the talking for both of them. He turned at his father’s greeting.

"Morning, love… Oh Jack… What time is it?" Rupert asked as he rearranged the bolster behind his back and sat up. He winced as the newly healed scar, that ran the length of his chest, complained. Jack was at his side in an instant.

"Dad. Will you stop exerting yourself! You know what the doctor said…" Jack fussed round his father.

Rupert slapped his hands away. "He said bed rest. I’m in bed. I’m hardly doing press ups am I?" Rupert saw his son’s pensive look; he and Willow were plotting something. "Don’t look at your mother, and don’t even think of delaying going back to Oxford." He waved a defiant index finger at Jack. "I’m fine. Now do I get tea and my breakfast or do I have to get it myself?" Rupert made to whip the bedclothes back and Jack tucked them back in around him fiercely.

"No… you don’t!" He chuckled. "Tea and toast coming up, black currant Jam, ok?"

Rupert nodded. "Shall we have stew tonight for dinner?"

Jack hesitated at the door and glanced once more at his mother’s portrait. "Yes, if you like." He stepped back to the bed and perched on the edge of the mattress. "Missing mum?"

His father’s eyes brimmed with tears, "Oh yes, all the time. I talk to her everyday. I can feel her near me. It’s worst at this time of year, when everything is in bloom and I think I see her in the garden, her hands buried in the earth, nurturing reluctant plants." Rupert’s eyes focussed on the voile curtain blowing in the breeze and a tear finally fell from the cradle of his lashes.

Jack slipped from the room unnoticed and busied himself in the kitchen with the breakfast.

Jack turned at his father’s soft footstep into the kitchen; the tray was in his hands. He scowled at his father who simply smiled cheerily and sat at the kitchen table. Jack placed the tray on the table and removed the breakfast things.

"Y’know, if you want me to obey you Jack, all you need to do is practice your “resolve face”…" Rupert bit into the piece of toast he’d been buttering and glanced at his flabbergasted son.

Jack smiled as he felt another “mum” story coming on. His father was telling him more about the time before he was born nowadays and he absorbed the stories, like a sponge, always hungry for more. His father talked about his Slayer and the rest of the Scooby’s and mentioned that he wanted to have them over for Christmas this year.

Rupert dropped his slice of toast onto his plate and swallowed a sip of tea to keep the toast down. He had realised something was wrong a few months ago, when everything began to taste funny and he had lost some weight. He looked about the kitchen, hunting in his mind a strong taste to test his theory. "How about some stew tonight for dinner?"

"Dad…" Jack started to protest, but then saw how heartily his father tucked into his jammy toast and thought no more of his repeated request for the same meal. "Yes, I’ll have to go to the village and get the meat… will you be alright?"

Rupert nodded, "I promise no raucous parties while you’re gone, but I’ll save a nymphet especially for you." He grinned.

Jack stacked the breakfast things into the sink to be washed on his return and collected the keys for the journey. He hesitated at the door but before he could say anything, his father shooed him out through the door.

Rupert selected some books in the library, and took them to his favourite reading chair. The fireplace was stone cold and he shivered, pulling the old throw round his knees. He remembered seeing his grandfather doing exactly the same thing before he died.

"Really, morbid thoughts for your old age, Rupert!" He chastised himself and opened the first of his books. Biggles’ adventures and smiled as he revisited old friends in his imagination.

The taxi drew level with the curb to pick up his fare. An elderly gent with a craggy face and needle sharp dark eyes, leaning heavily on a gnarled walking stick as he got up from the bench.

"Rayne?" the driver inquired. The man nodded and gestured to his case beside the bench. The driver sighed and bent to retrieve the battered luggage. He noticed the old mans attire, pyjamas peeped beneath his charcoal grey suit, and he wore carpet slippers on his feet.

The driver hesitated. "S’cuse me Sir, but does someone know you’re out this late?"

Ethan Rayne straightened indignantly and fixed him with an eagle eye. "I have no one to care about me or my whereabouts, now kindly take me to this address." He whipped out an address written on the back of an envelope. "Your fare is inside."

The driver looked inside the envelope at the wad of notes and whistled. Ethan shrunk with a sigh and got into the car’s backseat.

"There’s a blanket beside you if you need it mate." The driver had noticed the old man’s trembling hands. He checked to see if his fare would take it in the rear–view mirror.

Ethan nodded his thanks, and tucked the wool round his knees. He closed his eyes as they drove past the rest home he had escaped and thought of past adventures with his old friend Ripper.

End part 1

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