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'Do you like teaching?' He was clearly in less of a hurry than usual.

'I don't mind it when I've got the time—' she turned round and faced him '—and when the pupil is bright and enthusiastic, as May Fenn certainly is.'

He nodded, saying nothing, and her eyes dropped from his. He had a disconcerting way of looking at her, not staring exactly but observing closely—making her feel like she was on the end of a pin.

'How can I help you?' she asked formally, meeting his eyes at last.

'Ah, yes, of course, to business.' He unhitched himself from the desk. 'Miss Barton and Mrs Drew can, I think, take leave of us tomorrow so perhaps we could go in and see them, and I'd like a squint at their notes.'

Anna produced the two sets of folders and went with him into the ward. Miss Barton was in the day room, playing Scrabble with Mrs Curry, the vulvectomy patient, who moved about gingerly—wary of her drainage bag. Miss Barton was examined back on her bed and 'signed
off',
as Simon called it. 'You've done splendidly, Miss Barton.' He closed her notes with a snap.

'You mean
you
have,' she corrected. 'I haven't done very much, apart from keeping my fingers crossed and laying down the law.'

'Your tumour wasn't invasive; it was simple to get it away,' he said, thankful that this was so, and that he could look her in the eye.

'But tell me,' she said, and this time it was her gaze fixing his, 'if I'd been willing, would you still have prescribed cytotoxic treatment?'

'No, I wouldn't have,' he said, emphatically. 'That's not the way we work. Treatment where no treatment is necessary does more harm than good. Don't forget your follow-up appointment, though, will you, in six weeks' time?' She assured him that she wouldn't, thanked him again and went back to the day room—to Mrs Curry, and the Scrabble board, and her cup of cooling coffee.

Mrs Drew was eating a Mars bar, sitting by her bed in a pink
dressing-gown
with her long black hair tumbling down her neck. She was very pretty, thrilled to be pregnant and dedicated to chocolate. Laying a hand on her as-yet flat abdomen, she got to her feet, looking faintly alarmed at the sight of the great man himself. 'Is everything all right?' she asked, dropping back on the chair again.

'Couldn't be better, Mrs Drew,' Simon assured her quickly. 'You've no discomfort, have you, no dragging, or colicky pain?'

She shook her head with emphasis. 'Can't feel a thing. The worst was the anaesthetic.'

'Well, in another four or five weeks—' he watched Anna helping Cynthia Drew on to the bed '—you'll be feeling your baby shifting around.' He began to examine her, palpating her lower abdomen with the flat of his hand. His expression was one of total absorption.

He was always, Anna had noticed, a little remote at such times—all but on a different plane. And she knew the reason why, of course, for, especially in a gynae ward, the patients were extra-defenceless; embarrassment for most was less than skin-deep, and he respected this—he even deferred to it. Jokes on the gynae ward were taboo, and quite right too.

'No can do,' he said back in the office, when Anna suggested coffee. 'I have to attend a meeting with my peers at eleven, called by one of the financial managers, to discuss the distribution of funds. I want Gynae to have its fair slice of the cake.'

'Of course,' Anna said, taking Cynthia Drew's notes from his hand and catching his smile before he turned and went out of the door, disappointing Rosina yet again as she came out of the kitchen with coffee and biscuits and a slice of Genoa cake.

'He always stayed in Sister Hilton's day. Perhaps you don't tell him
soon
enough,' she said by way of accusation, dumping the tray on the desk.

Jean came in to share it with Anna, reporting that they were running short of drawsheets—there were only four left—and did Anna know that Mrs Day had been smoking in the loo again, and Mrs Jacobs was complaining that her breakfast egg wasn't one of the special free-range ones which her husband had brought in for her.

Anna sorted out the drawsheet problem, had a tactful word with Mrs Day about her smoking and promised Mrs Jacobs that she'd mark her eggs with a cross so that she'd know she'd got the right ones.

After this she welcomed the new patient who was taking Mrs Tooley's bed, supervised the ward lunches, went up and had her own, had a word with Janice Hall— who was still set on leaving—and at the start of visiting talked to Fay Cotton's husband—a hectoring, florid-faced man—who demanded to know when he and his wife could try for another
child.

'I'm keen to have a son, and as soon as possible,' he said in the kind of tone normally used for ordering a sofa or a sack of boiler fuel.

Inwardly outraged, but hiding it, Anna asked him to sit down. 'Mrs Cotton is making a good recovery,' she told him quietly, 'but a tubal pregnancy is a serious condition, especially when—as in her case—there has been a considerable loss of blood. Mr Easter hasn't given any indication yet as to when she'll be discharged, and even when she's home it will be some time before she's really strong.'

'This isn't what we planned.' He looked annoyed.

'I don't suppose it is,' Anna said with restraint, wanting nothing more than to push her fist into his jowly, frowning face.

'I'd like to see her surgeon, this Easter fellow; he's never here when I come.'

'Well, he doesn't actually hang about, Mr Cotton, on the off-chance of seeing relatives, but I'll certainly tell him that you'd like to see him, then I'll ring you and let you know when.'

'That's the best you can do, is it?'

'At this stage, I'm afraid it is.'

He rose from the chair, hitching up his trousers which—because of his acorn shape—had a tendency to slip to his scrotal region and have to be jerked up. He was considerably older than his wife, Anna thought, probably by twenty years, Which might account for his selfish rash to beget a child. Feeling a little sorry for him—but even more sorry for his wife—she watched him huff his way into the ward, looking up and down it in an overseeing kind of way before walking along to Fay's bed.

Weatherwise, it was a mixed sort of day—the sun blazing out one minute, rain gushing down the next. By mid-afternoon it was mostly rain and Anna began to fear for her date with Alex next day at the Collingham County Show.

He had rung her twice during the week to confirm starting times, and to reiterate how much he was looking forward to it all. He was the kind of man, Anna decided, who didn't like anything left to chance, and she could sympathise with this for she was tidy-minded herself, liking to plan ahead and look forward—not do things all in a rush.

It was not only raining when she went off duty at a little after four but coming down in torrents, whilst thunder—as yet far off—clattered thinly over the Channel, which was streaked with violet-blue. Stepping out of the crowded lift, she spied Simon by the exit doors amongst little knots and groups of visitors waiting to take the plunge out. He was giving every indication of making a dash for it.

Almost involuntarily seeking his company, Anna made for the doors as well—just as one of the hall porters thrust an umbrella into his hand. 'Might as well use this, sir, it's going spare.'

'Oh... Thanks.' As he turned he saw Anna. 'You off home?' he asked.

'Yes, I am.'

'Then you'd better share this; no sense in getting drenched.' The doors parted as he approached them and kept wide as she passed them as well. He had the umbrella up with one quick thrust and drew Anna under its shelter, keeping his free hand under her elbow as they set off across the yard.

It was a large, black, enveloping umbrella and it sheltered them like a roof, withstanding the hard pelt of the rain, affording privacy and inducing a kind of intimacy too—making Anna feel protected, and cared for and warmed right through to her bones. She wouldn't have minded if her car had been two miles away; she didn't notice the splash of rain round her legs, drenching her up to her knees.

She was oblivious to all and everything but Simon— the clasp of his hand round her arm, the brush of his thigh against her own, and the up-and-down sound of his voice as they half walked, half jogged, towards the parking lot.

'Good thing I saw you—' his breath came in jerks '—or you'd have got very wet.'

'An act of pure gallantry.' She was breathless too.

'Oh, so that's what it was!' His hand tightened on her aim, but now they had reached her car. Low, yellow, gleaming and washed, it seemed to stand out with annoying signalling brilliance, as though determined not to be missed.

As she bent to unlock it and as she swung the door open, he stood there sheltering her. All she needed to do was dip down into the driving seat, switch on the engine and say goodbye—but she did none of these things. Instead she turned round to thank him, meeting his eyes head-on for a fleeting second before he bent forward and kissed her on the lips.

Even without his arms around her it was a very positive kiss—a link, a message, a foretaste of bliss—and its swift, meaningful pressure was alive on her mouth, like a gentle madness, as she drove the car thoughtfully home.

'Tom
listens to Imogen far more readily than he does to me,' Alex confessed to Anna in the tea marquee next day. They were at the Collingham Show; had been there since eleven; and at three o'clock had watched Tom putting Greensleeves through her paces in the under-fifteens event.

There had been twelve competitors who, one by one, had been weeded down to two—Tom and a girl called Paula Felde on a magnificent blue roan, which she'd handled with confident skill. She was older than Tom by five years but, even so, there had been little to choose between them, and Anna had found herself very nearly as tense as Alex, as time and time again the two had been asked to canter and trot their horses in front of the judges' stand.

But Paula Felde had been proclaimed the winner and tumultuous applause had rung out. She had gone up for her medal, followed by Tom who'd had a rosette pinned to his jacket. He, too, had got his share of applause but, instead of acknowledging it, he'd ducked his head and made straight for where Alex, Anna and Imogen were sitting. There had been congratulations from all three, and from people sitting nearby, but his small face had been stormy as he turned it to his father.

'It should have been me,' his voice cracked. 'I was the best; I know I was; the judges just liked her horse!'

He was close to tears and Anna found herself feeling sorry for him. It had been a close thing, very close, and the strain must have been enormous for a little boy who was not quite nine years old. Alex bent to him and talked to him quietly.

'You rode superbly well, Tom, and there wasn't much difference between you, but the judges' decision is final; you can't get away from that. Paula Felde is a lot older than you; she's had more experience. What you must do now is go back down there and congratulate her. Don't let people see you're a bad loser, that's no way to go on.'

Tom shook his head and looked mutinous, 'You must be joking!' he cried, pushing past his father and Anna to get to Imogen.
Tom
could see I was the best, couldn't you, Imo...? You could see it wasn't fair?'

She persuaded him up on the seat beside her, but what she said to him was inaudible to Alex and Anna as the loudspeaker was blaring out details of the next event. It was plain, though, that she'd made him see reason for straight away they saw him going back down the gangway and along to the front of the stand where Paula Felde was talking to a reporter and having her photograph taken.

Tom approached her and proffered his hand, which she shook with enthusiasm, and then he was coming back through the tiers of the stand, pink-cheeked and pleased with himself. 'The newspaper man said I was a real trouper, and
she
said I ought to have won!'

'Good lad.' Alex made room for him on the seat but he took his place beside Imogen again, and sat there throughout the show jumping and the following dressage event.

Soon after five, when they were thinking about tea, Imogen excused herself. 'I think I'll make my way home, Alex.' She looked tired and a little drawn. She had travelled in her own car to the show in order to be at the ground when Greensleeves arrived in her box and, by the same token now, she wanted to be at home to stable the mare when she got back. Tom elected to go with her, so off they went—the grey-haired woman in her blue suit and the small, striding boy in sleek riding habit, hard hat under one arm.

'So, it's just us for tea,' Alex said, which was how he and Anna had come to be in the marquee together, talking about Tom.

'Has Miss Rayland been with you since he was very young...since your wife died?' Anna asked with care, but feeling that Alex wanted to talk.

'She came to us when he was five. He'd just started school. She was House Matron at a prep school for boys at Bayford, along the coast, saw our advert for a housekeeper, decided she wanted a change and came to us— just like that. We couldn't believe our luck. We still can't; she's a treasure and wonderful with Tom, who isn't easy, but I can't help wishing he had more time for me.'

Perhaps you don't try to share his interests, Anna thought but didn't say, confining herself to asking how Tom did at school.

'He's top of his form, good at sports too, but he likes to win.'

'Most of us do,' Anna laughed and, relieved when Alex joined in, she ventured to say that it could just be that at the age Tom was now he responded more easily to a woman. 'I couldn't help noticing how he opened up to my grandmother when you came to The Gables last week.'

'So he did to you,' Alex was quick to say.

Anna wasn't so sure, but she nodded and said, 'Maybe,' and shortly after that they went on to talk of other things, culminating in Alex asking her if she'd mind visiting Mapleton and Company's stand.

'The fine art dealers?' She was interested at once.

'And auctioneers. Yes, that's right,' he smiled back at her, well pleased. 'I do quite a bit of business with them, both in London and here. They suggested I should call on them; they're keeping open house at their stand.'