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Dr Glover infiltrated it with local anaesthetic, and sorted out a couple of packets of sutures. ‘Done much of this sort of thing?’ he asked Cathy quietly.
‘A fair bit when I was in Casualty. Friday night and Saturday morning there’s a lot of soft-tissue repair work!’
Dr Glover chuckled. ‘I’ll let you do it while I watch. My eyesight isn’t what it ought to be, and Max is out on a call. Do you mind?’
Cathy paused. She ought to be getting back for Stephen, but he was with his grandmother and they would be fine together. She smiled. ‘Of course not.’
Compared with some of the injuries inflicted by bottles and knives that she had dealt with routinely, Martin’s wound was child’s play, and in no time she had it sutured and bandaged, and they were seeing him off armed with painkillers.
She was just getting into her car when a big Mercedes swished into the car park and Max got out.
‘Good lord, what happened to you?’ he asked, and she followed the direction of his eyes to see blood smeared all over the front of her jacket.
‘Oh! I didn’t realise—someone came in with a cut hand, and I sutured it.’
‘You sutured it? Where was John?’
‘Dr Glover? He was there, but he said his eyesight wasn’t too good and you were out——’
There’s nothing wrong with his eyesight!’ Max said wryly. ‘Crafty old devil. I expect he just wanted to see you in action. Did you pass?’
Cathy thought back to Dr Glover’s praise when she had finished. ‘I’m afraid I may well have done.’
‘Afraid?’ His brows quirked. ‘Why should you be afraid?’
She shrugged and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I rather had the feeling you wanted me to fail,’ she said candidly.
A lesser man would have blushed. Max Armstrong threw back his head and laughed. It infuriated her.
‘Well? Didn’t you?’ she persisted.
‘Oh, no, Dr Harris. I may not want you as a partner, but it’s nothing to do with your ability as a doctor——’
‘Just my ability as a woman,’ she finished for him, and then flushed as he ran his eyes assessingly over her soft curves, lingering momentarily on the middle button of her blouse as it strained slightly against the fabric.
‘Oh, no, I’m sure your ability as a woman is unquestionable,’ he said softly. ‘It’s about you as a mother that I have my reservations.’ His eyes flicked back to hers. ‘Au revoir, Dr Harris.’
‘Don’t you mean goodbye?’ she asked sharply, stung by his criticism and disconcerted by her reaction to his lazy scrutiny.
‘No—no, as you realise I’m not in favour of your appointment, but I have no illusions. We need another woman doctor, and if John wants you to join the practice he’ll ask you, and guess who’ll end up picking up the slack? I suppose it could be worse—at least as a widow you’re unlikely to saddle us with the burden of your maternity leave.’
He touched his fingers to his temple in an insolent little salute, and strode past her into the surgery, leaving her quivering with anger and frustration.
‘Well, damn you, Dr Armstrong!’ she gritted, slamming the car into gear and screeching out of the car park, spraying gravel all over the front of his Mercedes. ‘Arrogant pig!’
She raved for a few minutes as she threaded her way through the little town, then when she reached the outskirts she pulled over into a lay-by and poured herself a drink of ice-cold orange from a flask she had packed earlier, giving herself a good talking-to before setting course for home.
Her temper slowly cooling, she looked around her. The countryside was beautiful, softly rolling hills, a gentle patchwork of farmland stretching away as far as the eye could see, and here and there a stonebuilt farmhouse nestled in a little cluster of barns and outbuildings.
It was the same stone that was very much in evidence in the little town houses, too, of course, as well as in the grander homes in the area. She glanced across the road. Set well back on the other side behind a low stone wall sat a lovely old house, roses and clematis tangling around the upper windows, a Virginia creeper smothering the honey-coloured stone, and she gazed longingly at it for a moment before restarting the car and pulling away.
What it must be like to have roots, to buy a house and plant climbing roses and know you’d still be there to see them grow in happy profusion all the way up to the roof. Perhaps, if she got the job, she’d be able to afford to buy a little cottage—nothing like that beautiful old house, but even a terraced house would have a wall she could grow a rose up—unless Max Armstrong had his way.
It was after six when she arrived at her mother-in-law’s house, and Stephen rushed to greet her, his eyes alight.
‘Mummy!’ he yelled. ‘Come and see—we made a cake and Granny let me decorate it! See!’ He grabbed her by the hand and towed her into the kitchen.
There, resplendent on a fine bone-china plate, was a ghastly puddle of chocolate smothered in sticky Smarties.
‘Oh, my goodness!’ she exclaimed, and winked at her mother-in-law over Stephen’s head. ‘What a wonderful cake!’
‘Do you want a bit?’
‘Yes, please, that would be lovely, darling.’
Joan Harris eyed her thoughtfully, then put the kettle on. ‘Cup of tea, I think, to go with it. Stephen, why don’t you go and put your pictures in Mummy’s car while we wait for the kettle to boil?’
He picked up an enormous stack of colourful daubs and zoomed out of the kitchen making racing-car noises. Cathy sighed. ‘Has he been all right?’
‘He’s been fine,’ Joan assured her soothingly. ‘How did you get on?’
‘Oh, God knows.’ Cathy shrugged expressively. ‘The boss was OK, but his junior partner was arrogant and high-handed—doesn’t like working mothers. He thinks I should be at home letting my husband support me—’ She caught the flicker of pain on her mother-in-law’s face and sighed. ‘Oh, hell, Joan, I’m sorry!’
She lifted a shoulder slightly. ‘It’s OK, Cathy. So, you didn’t get on?’
Cathy laughed shortly. ‘Get on? Are you kidding? He’s a womaniser, too—a real barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen guy. Macho man unlimited. Yuck.’
Joan suppressed a smile. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Tall, good-looking, sexy smile, come-to-bed eyes—I wanted to hit him.’
‘Why? Because he made you feel like a woman again?’
Cathy flushed and looked away, remembering the feel of his hands when he took the toys from her arms. ‘Rubbish! I never want to feel like that sort of woman!’
‘What sort? Real? Alive? Whole? Cathy, you’re still young. I know you loved Michael, but he died nearly four years ago, and in all that time you’ve never even been out for a drink with anyone.’
‘That’s not true——’
‘Not a man.’
Cathy met the gentle concern in her mother-in-law’s eyes, and looked away. ‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Not that busy. Any time you want to go out, you only have to ask.’ She reached out and took Cathy’s hand, squeezing it gently. ‘Don’t let life pass you by, Catherine.’
Cathy covered Joan’s hand with her other one, cradling it against her cheek. ‘I don’t mean to, but sometimes I think it already has. I’m thirty-five, Joan. It’s too late to start again.’
‘Nonsense! It’s never too late. Look at me!’
Joan, widowed seven years earlier, had recently started going out to the theatre with a man she had met through the Samaritans where they both worked as volunteers. Now, in what she classed as the autumn of her life, she was busy falling in love all over again. The only drawback was, she wanted everyone to be as wonderfully happy as she was—and Cathy knew it wasn’t for her.
She forced a smile. ‘I see you—you’re wonderful. I’m delighted things are going so well for you, but my priorities have to be with Stephen at the moment. He’s all I’ve got, Joan, and I’m afraid my love life comes a long way down the list of what matters right now.’
Just then the focus of her affection streaked back into the room, arms flailing, and dive-bombed her lap.
‘I’m a helicopter gunship—ack-ack-ack-ack—’
‘Hello, darling,’ she said with a smile. ‘Do helicopters like chocolate cake?’
‘Ye-eah! Can I have a big bit?’
The letter came a week later, when Cathy had all but given up hope. She was scanning a professional journal for the vacancies when the postman came, and she stuffed the letter in her bag, sure it was a polite but firm rejection.
She opened it during a snatched coffee-break midway through her morning surgery, and almost shrieked aloud.
So Max Armstrong had been right—John Glover had overruled him, and offered her the job. The thing was, knowing who she would be working with, did she still want it?
Yes, her heart told her. It was a fresh start, away from all the memories of Michael and the heartache of his illness and subsequent death, away from the dirt and oppression of the inner city, away from the muggings and the rapes and the stabbings—but away, too, from Joan, who had been such a tremendous support through the difficult years, and away also from all her friends.
Even so, it was the right thing for them, and she rang John Glover before she could change her mind and told him she would take the post and would be confirming her decision in writing that day.
‘Excellent,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’re just what this practice needs, my dear, and I’m delighted you’ve decided to join us. If there’s anything we can do to help with the move, give us a yell.’
‘In fact there is,’ she told him. ‘I’ll need somewhere to live—you don’t have any ideas, do you?’
‘Leave it with me,’ he said instantly. ‘I’ll put the word around.’
She thanked him, and then went and told her own senior partner that she would be leaving.
‘Good,’ he said without prevarication. ‘You’re like a plant grown under artificial light—you look as if you need a bit of fresh air and sunshine to brighten up your foliage!’
She smiled. ‘I’ll miss you all.’
‘We’ll miss you, too, Cathy, but it’s the right thing for you—and for Stephen.’
It was just what she needed to hear. In her lunch-break she contacted the headmaster of the little school in Barton-Under-Edge, and he confirmed that he would have a place for Stephen as soon as they moved.
Now all she needed was an au pair. She contacted her cousin in Paris, discovered that she had a friend whose daughter had just left school and was looking for a job in England but didn’t want to work in a town, and that evening she spoke to the young lady in question on the phone.
Delphine’s English was sketchy but adequate, and she sounded charming and very sensible. Immensely reassured, Cathy phoned her mother-in-law and broke the news.
‘Fantastic. I knew you’d get it. Now all you have to do is charm that lovely man with the come-to-bed eyes—’
‘I can’t tell you anything,’ Cathy said with a laugh, but secretly she was worrying about Max’s attitude towards her.
Would his prejudices make him impossible to work with? Oh, well, she thought with a shrug, all she had to do was prove him wrong. That shouldn’t be so difficult.
The one remaining problem was accommodation, and that was solved almost immediately as well.
She had a phone call the following day, from the only estate agent in the town, to say he had a charming little place to rent in Barton-Under-Edge, a three-bedroomed stable flat attached to Barton Manor, the impressive seventeenth-century stone-built house she had noticed on the outskirts of the town.
It sounded delightful, the rent seemed extremely reasonable, and she made arrangements to view it at the weekend.
The agent showed her round as the owner was unavailable, and it was, as she had supposed, absolutely charming. Attached to the side of the house, it was over the original stable block, now converted to a workshop and garage, and was accessed by a lovely old cast-iron staircase up the outside. A magnificent climbing rose was trained against the wall and reached almost to the eaves, and huge trusses of heavily scented apricot blooms cascaded over the doorway, drenching her with their exquisite fragrance.
The view over the rolling hills from the top of the steps was breathtaking, and, if that alone wasn’t enough to convince her, the flat itself, comfortably furnished and homely, was absolutely perfect for their requirements. Her natural prudence made her check all the terms, and, that done to her satisfaction, she agreed to take it and the agent said he would send her a contract to sign.
So it was that, two weeks later and a week before she was due to start her new job, she and Stephen packed up their things, rented a van and uprooted themselves from Bristol. As she closed the front door of their old flat behind her, it was as if she had closed a door on that part of her life. Her emotions ambivalent, but hope predominating, she bolstered herself with the memory of their new home. Surely there, in those wonderful surroundings, things would start to look up.
Joan came with them to help unload, because although there was no furniture there was still a phenomenal number of boxes, and she was glad of the other woman’s company.
They collected the key from the agent and Cathy drove up to the side of the house, parking at the foot of the steps.
‘What a beautiful house!’ Joan breathed, clearly awed.
‘Isn’t it? Come and see the flat. You’ll love it. Stephen, come with us, please.’
‘Oh, Mummy, do I have to? There’s a duck with her babies!’
And there was, waddling across the grass beside the stable block, head held proudly erect, followed by an untidy line of fluffy little ducklings.
Cathy relented. ‘All right, but don’t go anywhere else. I don’t want you wandering off!’
She led Joan up to the flat and they let themselves in, to find the place freshly polished and gleaming, a bowl of the apricot roses set in the middle of the dining table.
‘Oh, Cathy, how delightful!’ Joan exclaimed. ‘Oh, I just know you’ll be happy here!’
She hugged her mother-in-law and friend. ‘I hope so—oh, Joan, I hope so. I’ll find Stephen—I want to show him his bedroom. I’ll have to ask the owner if we can have an area for him to play in. He’ll love that. He’s hated not having a garden in Bristol.’
Her heart singing, she ran lightly down the cast-iron steps—and slap into a solid and very masculine chest.
‘You!’ the man exclaimed, and, with a sinking feeling, Cathy looked up into the astonished blue eyes of Max Armstrong.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_897798c7-a82f-51a6-bcce-75f6e5e0f5fe)
CATHY stepped back, snatched a calming breath and dredged up a smile. ‘Dr Armstrong! What a surprise.’
Goodness, she had forgotten how blue those eyes were. They glittered like sapphires—especially when, like now, they were clearly angry!
‘Is this young man anything to do with you?’
Belatedly Cathy noticed Stephen, lurking uncomfortably behind Max. ‘Yes—I wondered where he’d got to. He was watching the ducks—’
‘Well, you should keep a closer eye on him. I nearly had to fish him out of the pond!’
‘I was just following the baby ducks,’ he mumbled miserably.
‘Oh, Stephen! I told you not to go anywhere. You can’t just do what you want, it isn’t our garden. Wait until I’ve sorted something out, OK?’
