‘It’s early days as yet, Phyllis,’ said Mary Whittaker. ‘Up to about six months you’re allowed to break down and weep in the supermarket, but after that you have to buck up, or you become a bit of a bore. I know, I’ve been through it.’
Phyllis Maynard, who remembered when Tom Whittaker, a friend of Ben’s on the town council, had died, appreciated her friend’s frankness, but did not yet feel ready to face the world.
‘People are very kind, Mary, and I get asked to coffee mornings and bring-and-buy sales, but to be quite honest I’m always tired, and I find company even lonelier than solitude.’
‘Ah, you poor dear, take it from me, you will find that it starts to get better,’ said Mary. ‘Look, have you heard about this new Christmas choir that Jeremy North’s getting together? He’s such a nice, humorous man, isn’t he, and so full of enthusiasm – why don’t we both join, it will be good for us, and brighten up the winter evenings.’
‘I’m dreading Christmas, Mary.’
‘Oh, my dear, Christmas will come and go like it always does, and in the New Year you’ll start to look ahead again. Come on, let’s go and have a coffee at Edward’s.’
Getting her mother to the clinic was not easy, and Shelagh needed all her forbearance. Bridget refused to hurry over breakfast, having resisted her daughter’s help in producing an early morning specimen of urine into a plastic jug which Shelagh then poured into a small sterile labelled container. She then refused help in getting dressed in her clean, lavender-scented underwear – Directoire knickers and lisle stockings held up by suspenders dangling from a belt beneath her long woollen vest, and a petticoat. She must be the only woman in Everham who still wears such outdated undies, thought Shelagh; whoever would know that we’re into the 1960s? She wondered where Bridget would shop when the old-fashioned ladies’ outfitters in North Camp finally closed its Edwardian doors. When at last she helped her mother into the car, the two were scarcely on speaking terms, although Shelagh did her best to be patient.
The outpatients department was at the front of the building, and consisted of a series of examination rooms with a large waiting area in the middle. Shelagh was thankful for Bridget’s early appointment, but Mr Kydd had not yet arrived. Sister Oates was there beside his consulting room, and invited them to sit down in the front row, though Shelagh felt self-conscious among the other early patients attending the gynae clinic.
‘Dr Hammond!’ said a voice close to them, ‘and waiting to see Mr Kydd? Nothing serious, I hope?’
Dr McDowall in a pristine white coat stood before them, and Shelagh burnt with embarrassment.
‘My mother is waiting to see Mr Kydd,’ she said shortly, and before he could reply, Bridget Hammond broke in with, ‘Who’s this one, then? Is he the one who’s goin’ to meddle wid me?’
‘No, Mother, this is somebody quite different. Mr Kydd will be here in a minute.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Hammond,’ said McDowall politely, holding out his hand which Bridget pointedly refused to shake. ‘You’ll like Mr Kydd, he’s—’
‘Ye can save the blarney, Dr Whoever-ye-are, I’m here against me own wishes entirely,’ she interrupted. ‘All I want is to get out o’ this place!’
He glanced at Shelagh. ‘Look, let me get you both a cup of tea from the WRVS stand over there.’
To Shelagh’s relief she saw Mr Kydd arrive and go into his examination room. Sister Oates beckoned to them.
‘Come on, Mother, we’re going in to see Mr Kydd now, so if you’ll excuse us, Dr McDowall—’
But Bridget objected strongly to Shelagh’s presence at the consultation. ‘Holy Mother o’ God, I won’t have you standin’ there watchin’ me – your own mother, it’s not decent! This tidy little body can come in,’ she added, indicating Sister Oates who gave Shelagh an apologetic look.
‘Perhaps you’d care to wait, Dr Hammond.’
McDowall turned down the corners of his mouth in a sympathetic grimace. ‘Let’s have that cup of tea now, shall we?’
‘No, thank you, Dr McDowall, I’ll wait for my mother. I’m sorry for the way she spoke to you, but I’m sure you have other duties to attend to. Good morning.’
He raised his eyebrows, shrugged and walked away.
It was dark when the Reverend Derek Bolt drove into his garage, not sorry to be done with the day’s business. The meeting of the diocesan clergy had been dominated by the church’s dire financial straits, and the best that they could hope for was that their Christmas Fairs or Fayres would bring in a thousand or two from the stalls, raffles, tombola, various competitions and for the children a visit to Santa in his grotto; Derek hoped that a better volunteer than old Mr Wetherby would come forward, willing to put on the red coat, white moustache and beard. With Daphne being a little temperamental at present with menopausal moods, he could not rely on her to bake and decorate the usual large Christmas cake for the raffle; perhaps Mrs Coulter would oblige, or Miss Oates – he couldn’t ask Mrs Maynard, though in fact it might be good for her, give her something to do …
The light in the kitchen window beckoned invitingly. He pulled down the overhead garage door, and was about to lock it when – oh, heck. There was a tug at his arm and a breathless, urgent voice in his ear.
‘Mr Bolt – Derek – will you listen, just for a minute, for the love of God!’
It was Beryl Johnson, again. He swung round, but her hand still clutched his arm. He took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Now, Miss Johnson, you really must not – er – waylay me in this way.’
‘You showed me kindness, you showed me pity at my mother’s funeral. Can’t you please show it to me again? Don’t send me away, please!’ Her voice rose, and he feared they might be overheard in the kitchen. He shook her hand off his arm.
‘Stop this, Miss Johnson, stop it at once, do you hear? I only meant to comfort you at Mrs Johnson’s funeral, nothing more. I’m a happily married man, and you must stop this now.’
‘Only if you promise to come and see me, listen to me—’
‘Of course I can’t come to your house, you know that.’
‘But you visited Mrs Maynard yesterday, I saw you. You stayed there half an hour.’
‘You’ve been following me again. It’s got to stop, I tell you.’
‘Then let me meet you in the church, just for ten minutes, just to talk, only for a few minutes, it’s not asking much, Derek!’
‘Pull yourself together, Miss Johnson,’ he said firmly. ‘Look, I know you’ve suffered at losing your mother, but that was some weeks ago, and it’s time to move on. Rejoin the land of the living, for heaven’s sake.’
She stood there beside him in the dark, crying quietly, and he felt at a loss. She lived alone in the semi she had shared with old Mrs Johnson, and her only near relative, a brother, lived in Canada. He had come over for the funeral and to help Beryl sort out the various formalities that surround a death in the family, and had returned to Ontario. At the funeral Derek Bolt had put an arm around her and held her head against his chest for a moment, a public gesture seen by all present; and this is where that spontaneous moment of sympathy had led. He admitted to himself that he had a certain responsibility towards Beryl Johnson who was, after all, in his spiritual care by the nature of his office. And Christ would have been gentle with her. Poor woman, he thought. Poor, unhappy woman.
‘I do feel for you, my dear—’
She stopped crying, and held her breath. He had called her his dear. His dear.
‘Oh, thank you, Derek, thank you, God bless you, bless you!’
‘Sssh! You must go home now.’
There was a pause, and she whispered, ‘All right, as long as I know that you feel for me just a little, I’ll do as you say.’
‘Good girl.’ It seemed the right thing to say, though she was over fifty. She was also in an emotional state, it was dark, and she had about a mile to walk, and two main roads to cross. Suppose a car or bus …
‘I’ll get the car out again and run you home. Only you must never do this again, do you understand?’
‘Yes, I’ll try. Thank you, Der—Mr Bolt,’ she whispered.
He opened the garage, backed the car out, and she got in. He reminded her to fasten her safety belt, then drove her across Everham, pulling up outside the unlit semi in Angel Close. He reminded her to unfasten the belt, and leant across to open the passenger door. He did not get out to help her, but stayed where he was, with the engine running. Before she got out, she faced him.
‘Let me kiss you.’
He let her kiss his cheek while he sat still as a statue, looking straight ahead.
‘Good night, Miss Johnson.’
She got out of the car and walked slowly to her front door. He watched her unlock it and disappear inside. A light went on in the hall. He reproached himself for not once mentioning prayer; he should have told her to pray about her situation. And so should he.
‘What was going on out there, Derek?’ asked Daphne when he went in through the kitchen door. ‘I heard you arrive and put the car away, but then you took it out again, said something to somebody and drove off. What happened?’
‘Yes. Remembered I was out of—out of—’
‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want me to know. I’m used to being the vicar’s wife, the last person to be told anything.’
Poor Daphne, he thought guiltily. There were so many confidential matters that people told him, which he was not free to tell her or anybody. He should have just said that he’d had an urgent call and dealt with it as well as he could, as had happened on previous occasions. So why try to lie to her? He felt uneasily ashamed, and tried to apologise.
‘You’re wonderful, Daphne, being married to a “man of the cloth”, and having to put up with his round-the-clock duties!’ he said, kissing her and patting her bottom. She made no reply except to say that his supper was in the oven, and she hoped it was not too dry.
Shelagh managed to keep her emotion under control when Mr Kydd invited her into his office, indicated a chair and offered her coffee and biscuits. Such largesse warned her of unwelcome news.
‘I see what you mean, Shelagh, your mother’s quite a character, isn’t she? Not the easiest patient to deal with! It must have been difficult to persuade her to come to my clinic, and I have to congratulate you on achieving it!’
He smiled, and Shelagh waited with bated breath for his verdict.
‘I’ve told her that she needs an operation as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘I shall need to do a radical hysterectomy without delay – uterus, ovaries, tubes and any lymph glands in the area, a complete pelvic clearance.’
Shelagh gasped and put her hand to her mouth. She stared at the consultant, eyes wide.
‘Yes, Mr Kydd,’ she whispered.
‘So, my dear, I’d like to admit her on Monday next, for surgery on Wednesday. We’ll need to do the usual tests, and cross-match a couple of pints of blood. You know as well as I do what the prognosis is likely to be. I’ve left Mrs Hammond – she doesn’t approve of first names! – a glimmer of hope, and I offer that glimmer to you, Shelagh. We’ll follow the operation with a course of chemotherapy, and possible radium, depending on how she responds. It’s going to be difficult for you, Shelagh, and we’ll arrange for social services to visit and give some daily help when she’s discharged. She says she doesn’t want it, and I didn’t waste my time arguing with her, because I feel pretty sure that she will change her mind after the op.’ He drew a long breath and added, ‘I’m so sorry, my dear. We’ll all rally round on obs and gynae, you know that you are highly valued.’
She gave a wintry smile. ‘Thank you, Mr Kydd, I appreciate your frankness.’ She rose from her chair. ‘I’ll get my mother admitted on Monday.’
‘Good. I’ll speak to Sister Kelly on Gynae about a single room. We must provide the very best care for Dr Hammond’s mother!’
‘I’ll encourage her as much as I can, Mr Kydd.’
‘And I’ll do my best for her, Shelagh,’ he said as they shook hands.
‘Mum! Oh, Mum, I’ve been dying to tell you for weeks, such wonderful news, but I had to wait to be really sure!’ Jenny Gifford’s excited voice came across the phone, and Phyllis Maynard immediately knew what she was about to hear.
‘Go on, dear, what is it?’ she asked, allowing Jenny the pleasure of breaking good news.
‘It’s fifty-seven days, Mum! I realised at Dad’s funeral that I’d missed a period, and put it down to the shock, but now I’ve missed another! Fifty-seven days since the first day of my last period – that’s over eight weeks – I’m into the third month!’
‘Jenny dear, that’s wonderful news,’ said Phyllis, tears springing to her eyes at hearing the joy in her daughter’s voice. Jenny was now thirty-two and after four years of marriage there had been no news of a baby. All sorts of measures had been tried: the keeping of a daily temperature chart which was supposed to show a slight rise at the time of ovulation, in the middle of the monthly cycle. A lady gynaecologist had suggested that Jenny should obtain a specimen of her vaginal secretion at this time, and examine it for its elasticity, pulling it between two spoons and noting if it stretched into a long, jelly-like strand; if so, that was the right time to have intercourse. Tim had undergone many sperm counts, all of which had been normal.
‘But it was that suggestion the science master made that’s done the trick,’ Jenny went on. ‘The fact that elephants’ testicles are within their bodies until the mating season, when they descend and can be seen, suggesting that they need a cooler environment to produce sperm – and it’s worked!’
Phyllis suppressed a smile, remembering how Tim had sat in a cold bath with ice cubes floating around him to ensure coolness before intercourse. Poor Tim! She had been sceptical, but now it had appeared to have the desired results. A baby at last!
‘It’ll make all the difference to Christmas, Mum, our first without Dad – you’ll be coming to us this year, and I’ll come to church with you and belt out “Silent Night”!’
What a comfort she was, this elder daughter of hers, thought Phyllis gratefully. Living near each other as they did, a baby would be the centre of their world.
‘Let’s go shopping on Saturday, Mum – we’ll have a look in Mothercare and see what they’ve got. Marion dressed her two in cosy little sleeping suits.’
‘It’s much too early to go shopping, dear, we’ll have to be really sure,’ warned Phyllis cautiously.
‘But I am sure, Mum, I can feel it down here in my pelvis, it’s there!’
Lord, let it be true, Phyllis prayed silently. Let them have their wish, please, let it be!
Saturday was chilly but fine, and Jenny appeared at the door early, ready to go ‘window shopping’ in Mothercare. There she and her mother looked at cots, clothes and little toys to dangle from the top of the cot or pram. In the maternity-wear section Jenny noticed a beautiful dress in midnight-blue velvet.
‘Isn’t it exquisite, Mum? I’m tempted to buy it now, before it gets sold. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.’
‘I’ll get it for you, dear,’ said Phyllis, though the dress was quite expensive, and as she paid for it, she told herself silently that with the addition of a soft leather belt it would be a good dress for formal occasions if by any sad chance …
That was when Jenny caught sight of the bear.
‘Mum! Just look at that gorgeous teddy bear, up on the shelf, see, the one with the red bow tie!’
Phyllis agreed that he was a handsome fellow with a smiley face, but—
Jenny was asking to see the bear, and took him from the assistant’s hand. ‘Feel him, Mum, he’s so soft and cuddly – mmm!’
Like the dress, the bear was expensive, but Phyllis could not deny her daughter. The salesgirl put him into a Mothercare bag, which Jenny put into her own shopping bag, leaving his head sticking out above it.
‘Definitely a case of love at first sight,’ smiled the assistant as they turned to leave the store with their purchases. They ran straight into a notorious gossip as she was emerging from the hairdresser’s.
‘Oho!’ she said at the sight of the bear. ‘Isn’t he adorable? Now I wonder who he’s going to belong to!’
Phyllis started to say that it was early days yet, but Jenny’s shining eyes were answer enough for the interested lady. ‘So you’ve managed it at last – well done! Congratulations!’
‘We’re not saying anything yet,’ said Phyllis hastily, but it was too late. Jenny Gifford’s news would soon be all over Everham, and by Monday morning it had reached Everham Primary School.
‘We’re all so happy for you, Jenny,’ chorused her colleagues in the staff room, and even the headmaster came to her classroom.
‘Glad to hear your news, Mrs Gifford,’ he said quietly, using the formal address in front of the children. ‘And it will give your mother something to look forward to – good timing!’
‘Thank you, Mr North,’ she said, blushing happily, and he left the room with his unspoken thoughts: trouble is, the little buggers grow up. I wish them better luck than we’ve had.
Sister Kelly, buxom and bustling, showed Bridget Hammond into the single room on the gynaecological ward which was to be hers during her stay in hospital, with its en suite bathroom and toilet, moveable bed-table, locker and call-bell.
‘All you have to do is press that, and a nurse will come to answer it, Mrs Hammond. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee now?’
When Shelagh went to see her mother at lunchtime, she was relieved to find Bridget clearly impressed.
‘It’s better than I expected, girl. Ye never told me it was like one o’ them four-star hotels where grand folks go for their holidays!’
Shelagh smiled affectionately, looking down on the worn, blue-veined hands clasped together over her prayer book; her mother was very different from the suspicious, defiant woman of a week ago.
‘Is there anything you’d like me to bring in for you, Mother? Lemon squash? A magazine? More tissues?’
‘I’m fine, I’ve got me rosary and me missal, that’s all I need. Ye’re a good girl, Shelagh, and aren’t you the fine lady doctor, in your white coat and your what’s-it-called hangin’ round your neck? It’s like seein’ ye for the first time.’
Shelagh had seldom heard such praise since childhood. She kissed the pale, papery cheek, and then went straight to the hospital chapel where she knelt and prayed earnestly for her mother – and for herself, that she might have sufficient courage and stamina to face the critical days following the operation.
Paul Sykes caught up with her in the doctors’ mess. The dining room adjoined a smaller one called the smoking room, though smoking was beginning to be discouraged in the hospital. They were alone here, and he drew her towards him.
‘Shelagh, you poor darling, I’m so sorry about your mother. Harry Kydd’s not wasting any time, is he? She’s in good hands – he’s the best gynaecologist in the county.’
‘I’m trying to be calm and sensible, Paul, but I won’t have a minute’s peace until the op’s over. She’s first on the list for Wednesday morning – oh, Paul!’ She clung to him, unable to stop the tears from falling. He held her close against him, stroking her hair and whispering reassurances.
‘I’ve got an idea, darling – we’re both free tomorrow evening, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, it’s the night before her operation, and I’ll spend it with her.’
‘Why not let me take you out to dinner?’
‘Oh, no, Paul, my place will be beside my mother. It’s terribly kind of you, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry, but—’ She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘Actually, darling, it would be best for both of you. She needs the rest and you deserve a little treat, rather than sitting with her and going over the details of the op again. Trust me, it would be a good idea.’
Shelagh reluctantly but firmly repeated that she could not leave her mother, but thanked him for his kindness, and they kissed hastily as they heard the door open on medical staff arriving for lunch.
When Shelagh went to Bridget’s room on the following morning, she found her full of praise for the staff.
‘That nice Sister Kelly makes Irish lace the same as me mother used to,’ she said, ‘and I’ll try me hand at it when I get out o’ here. And that cheeky young feller who came to see me last night, talk about daft Mick, he was so funny!’
‘What, a doctor?’ asked Shelagh.
‘Sure, what else could he have been, him with the white coat an’ all? He was talkin’ about me goin’ for me op tomorrow.’
Shelagh supposed he had been the anaesthetist, visiting his pre-op patients, but she was grateful to him.
‘This time tomorrow, Mother, it will all be over, and you’ll be back here in your own room,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll come in this evening to—’
‘No, girl, don’t come this evenin’, Father Orlando’s comin’ over from Our Lady o’ Pity to give me the Last Rites, so I want to be left in peace, before and after.’
‘Oh, Mother! That won’t be necessary, you’ll get over the operation, and feel a new woman!’ Shelagh remonstrated. ‘Let me ask the Catholic chaplain to come and see you.’
‘No, Shelagh, Father Orlando knows me, and he’s bringin’ me the Holy Sacrament, in case I don’t come round,’ Bridget insisted. ‘Sister Kelly’s fixed it up wid him for me. Besides, there’s no sense in you and me sittin’ and goin’ over it again and again, is there?’
Shelagh noticed her unconscious repetition of Paul’s words, and agreed that she would come to visit after the operation, on the following day. As she kissed her mother, she decided to phone Paul straight away and gladly accept his invitation.
‘That’s great news, darling,’ he said. ‘Your dear mum sounds a very sensible lady. I’ll pick you up from home at half past six, all right? We’ll go to the Mitre, that’s a good way off, away from this place and all the tittle-tattlers, OK?’
‘That sounds wonderful, Paul, I’ll expect you at six-thirty,’ she said, adding to herself, ready and waiting for you, my love. The anxiety over her mother had made her feel more strongly her need for Paul Sykes’ love; she revelled in the comfort of it, even though the secrecy from her mother bothered her.
What to wear? She looked through her skirts, long and short, and decided on a soft wool dress in a paisley pattern. She swept her hair back into an elegant coil, secured with a silver clip. With long earrings and a necklace of semi-precious stones, she would look at her best, or nearly her best, she thought, applying a hint of blusher to her pale cheeks. A spray of the perfume Paul had given her completed her preparation and gave her confidence, even at this testing time, and although she longed for her mother’s operation to be over, the thought of the Last Rites no longer seemed a matter of life or death, but rather a somewhat extreme caution on Bridget’s part.
Seeing her standing at the door, Paul could only murmur, ‘You look stunning, Shelagh, absolutely stunning,’ and all her efforts seemed worthwhile.
On the drive through the dark Hampshire countryside, he enquired about her mother, and she longed to lay her head on his shoulder and confide her deepest fears to him, but this was to be his treat for her, and she merely replied that her mother seemed more relaxed and rested; closing her eyes momentarily, she saw again Bridget’s calm face on the pillows, her hands folded over her prayer book.
A few tables were already occupied at the Mitre when they arrived; Paul had booked a table near a curtained window, and helped her off with her navy fleece-lined jacket before pulling out a chair for her to sit down at the candlelit table. It was a perfect romantic setting, a handsome couple dining together.
‘What will you drink, darling? We’d better order now while we’re waiting to be served. Look, here’s the menu – we must decide what we’re having. I’m ready for my dinner, aren’t you?’
Shelagh smiled, but to her dismay felt the beginnings of a headache which she would have to conceal. She realised how tired she was, how the events of this week had told on her, and secretly thought it would have been better for them to have spent the evening at her home, enjoying a light salad supper.
The waiter took orders for wine, white for Shelagh, red for Paul who put his hand over hers on the table. ‘To tell you the truth, I almost called off this evening, darling, and settled for baked beans on toast at your place, only it seemed a cheek – and I know how much you want to get away from things, so I left it as we arranged.’
She could only smile to hide her disappointment at losing a quiet evening in, but only said, ‘It’s so good of you, Paul,’ and raised her glass to clink against his.
‘Here’s to your mum, Shelagh – a happy outcome!’
When the waiter brought the halibut steak for her and rump steak for him, they heard a woman’s peal of laughter in the middle of the room. When Shelagh looked, she saw to her immense chagrin that the sound came from two girls and a man – Tanya Dickenson, Laurie Moffatt and Leigh McDowall. Paul saw them too.
‘My God, that chap knows how to enjoy himself! He’s bagged the two best-looking midwives – d’you think he’s carrying on with them both?’
‘I neither know nor care,’ she answered, averting her gaze. What on earth would the trio think, to see her out with Paul on the evening before her mother’s serious operation?
‘Well, as long as they don’t see us and come over,’ she said, trying to speak lightly.
Paul rolled his eyes. ‘Knowing him, he probably will, all nudge, nudge, wink, wink—’
Oh, no, I just couldn’t bear it, thought Shelagh, hardly able to cut into the fish with parsley sauce, for which she had lost all appetite. And in front of that supercilious Sister Dickenson, it was just too awful.
‘Please don’t look in their direction, Paul.’
A roar of welcome went up from the threesome as a latecomer joined them, sitting down beside Laurie and kissing her apologetically. She smiled up at him, and Shelagh caught herself staring at them. So they were a foursome, with McDowall partnering Tanya who seemed to be returning his teasing banter with much amusement.
‘Roger, old sport, so you’ve come to join us after all!’ said McDowall. ‘It’s been hard work for me, keeping Laurie satisfied as well as Tanya!’ More laughter.
‘Do you recognise the late arrival?’ asked Paul. ‘I don’t. Is he at Everham Park?’
‘Sometimes,’ muttered Shelagh. ‘He’s Roger Stedman, a freelance photographer, and comes to Maternity to take photos of the newborns. They’re quite good, actually.’
Suddenly a sensation of utter weariness descended on her, and she could eat no more. She declined the dessert, and only accepted coffee because Paul ordered it. Her head swam, and the jolly foursome and all the other diners receded into a grey mist: she could not follow what Paul was saying, and longed only for the peace and privacy of her home and bed.
‘Let’s go, Paul. Please, let’s go.’
‘Darling, what’s the matter? You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’
‘I’m all right, except that I’m so tired, and it’s going to be a long day tomorrow.’
‘All right, I’ll take you straight home. Here’s your jacket, and I’ll go and pay the bill. Wait for just a minute.’
She sat there taking deep breaths to clear her head and ward off nausea until he returned and took her arm to lead her out of the restaurant and to his red Saab in the car park. Little was said on the journey home, and when they reached Alexandra Road, he helped her out and escorted her to the front door.
‘I’m so sorry, Paul. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll say goodnight here.’
‘Goodnight, darling. I’m sorry too, but never mind. We should have settled for baked beans on toast after all! Get a good night’s sleep, and you’ll be better after your mum’s had her op.’
They kissed briefly, and she went in and closed the door, utterly relieved to be home and alone. What a disaster of an evening, and what bad luck about McDowall and his friends. What on earth must they think of such an uncaring daughter? Damnation.
Paul drove back to the house in North Camp that he rented with two male medical colleagues and a laboratory technician. What a disaster of an evening. It had been a mistake, and any hopes he had cherished of extending it in the privacy of her little place for an hour or two were well and truly scuttled. Bugger.