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Anna did a quick mental resume about what she was wearing. Would a short linen skirt, a multicoloured shirt and hair loose about her face pass muster at the Mapleton stand, which might easily, she thought, be entertaining moneyed clients all in correct country clothes? She had noticed their stand when they'd first arrived; it was built like a small bungalow. 'Perhaps,' she said uncertainly, 'I ought to tidy up a bit first.'

'You're fine as you are,' he said, looking at her with the cool eye of a man used to appraising beautiful things.

Reassured, she reached for her bag. 'In that case, ready when you are.' Instinctively she realised that he set great store by appearances. He, himself, in a light flannel suit and Turnbull and Asser shirt, looked prosperous and well-turned out, and if he hadn't considered that she complemented his image he would never, she knew, have asked her to accompany him to the toffee-nosed Mapleton's stand.

He's a perfectionist; he'd be hard to live up to but, even so, I like him; I like him a lot, she was thinking as they left the marquee and came out into the sunshine again.

It was five-thirty and more and more people were pouring in through the turnstiles. After the fiasco of yesterday the weather had decided to behave itself. There was just enough breeze to flutter the bunting and put snapping life into flags and awnings, and to give coolness to the cattle in their makeshift shelters and pens.

The atmosphere wasn't unlike a very 'upmarket market'. Groups of people met other groups they hadn't seen for a year. There were hoardings everywhere advertising cattle-feed and dips and special treatments for ticks. There was a smell of hay, of trodden grass, of oil from the columns and lines of farm machinery being demonstrated—in striking contrast to the magnificent shire-horses pulling an old-fashioned plough.

Somewhere over by the children's funfair the band was playing the Oompa-pa tune from
Oliver
as, side by side with Alex, Anna walked onto the veranda of Mapleton and Company's stand.

The three rooms into which it had been divided were peopled with chattering businessmen, some with their wives but most without, and a hired waiter was serving drinks. Alex was hailed—in fact, descended upon—by the senior partner, a smiling, bald-headed man in his sixties who ran the London, Mayfair office. He knew Alex well and was charmed, he said, to meet a friend of his. He plied them with refreshments, although Alex refused champagne.

'Anna and I want to get home in one piece tonight,' he joked. Anna had a glass and felt better for it with every passing minute, and perhaps it was partly the champagne that made her accept, with no hesitation at all, Alex's invitation to have dinner with him one evening. He broached this on the way home, showing pleasure when she said yes.

'We could try that new restaurant at the top of the Grand Hotel—I've heard one or two people speak well of it.' He flicked a glance at her as they turned off from the roundabout onto the main Charding road.

'I'd like that,' Anna enthused, pushing out of her mind the thought that less than a week ago Simon had invited her out and she'd made herself refuse. But Alex is easier, different altogether, not a threat to my happiness, she told herself, hearing him suggest Tuesday evening, to which she agreed.

She wouldn't have minded him kissing her when they got back to The Gables, but she didn't long for this to happen and neither was she surprised when all he did was grip her hands tightly, then slide back into the car.

He's not the sort to sweep a girl off her feet, she thought, letting herself into the hall, but he's attractive and I like him; passion isn't all. Without warning again, and annoyingly, Simon slid into her mind just as Prue came in from the garden, brandishing the evening paper.

'Anna, there's been a baby abandoned...at the hospital...in Casualty! There's a photograph. Look—' she stabbed a finger at the bottom of the front page '—there's your Mr Easter holding it. The poor little thing was left there, they think, early this morning, and only a few hours old!'

Wordlessly Anna took the paper from her grandmother, and stared at the blurred photograph of Simon standing with the child in his arms. He could have been anyone, with his face half-turned, looking down at the shawled bundle. He was wearing a white coat, which Sister Rose Webb would have insisted he donned whilst up in the baby unit—she was a stickler for would-be germs.

'A newborn baby boy,' Anna started to read, 'was left in the casualty department of the Regent Hospital today in a plastic bag, wrapped in a towel and crying lustily. Mr Simon Easter, Consultant Gynaecologist, pictured above, said the baby appeared to be in good health, but appealed for the mother to come forward as she may be in need of medical care. It is emphasised that no charges of any kind will be brought.'

'It was on the six o'clock news as well,' Prue said, pushing Anna through into her flat. 'A nurse was holding the baby then, and there was a picture of the ward.'

'I expect the nurse was Rose Webb, the sister on Maternity.' Anna handed the paper back. 'Let's hope the mother turns up, but I'd like to bet she won't. We had a case like that at the Walbrook once.' She Sat down heavily on Prue's settee, feeling deadly tired. Champagne, when long gone, leaves lassitude in its wake, and she very nearly snapped at Prue when she asked her if she was going to ring Rose Webb up.

'No, I'm certainly not,' she said. 'She wouldn't thank me for it; she'd think I was muscling in, stealing her limelight! I'll go up and see the baby on Monday, if it hasn't been claimed before then.'

'You nurses are a funny lot!' Prue pulled a face.

'A breed apart.' Anna managed to laugh and to go on to talk about the show, and about Tom being runner-up in his event and getting a rosette.

'Not the medal, then?' Prue looked concerned.

'No, a girl got that.'

'Was he very upset?'

'I'm afraid he was, and he couldn't hide it at first, but Imogen Rayland had words with him—what they were I don't know—but they did the trick; he went off and congratulated the girl, much to Alex's relief
and
mine. I thought there'd be a scene. Anyway, she, Imogen, took him home afterwards so that they could see to his horse. Alex and I had tea together, then went on to Mapletons' stand.'

'The
Mapletons... Wowee!' Prue liked to use what she thought of as modern expressions.

'Alex was welcomed like royalty.'

'That surprises me not at all; the Marriners move in exalted circles; their business is top of the tree.'

'I suppose it is.' Anna got up to go.

'And you enjoyed yourself, I hope?'

'Yes, I did, more than I thought I would. It was such an utter change.'

'Good.' Prue switched her radio on. 'I'm very glad to hear it. It's time you began to go out and about, and meet lots of interesting men.'

Anna was on late on Monday, getting to the hospital at midday, but before she'd even reached the, lifts she learned that the mother of the abandoned baby had come in for treatment. Not having time to learn all the details, she hurried up to Gynae and along to the office, where she found Simon deep in conversation with a tawny-haired man in glasses. Both swung round at her approach.

Jean was there too but, relieved to see Anna, she hurried away, whereupon Simon introduced the stranger as James Petersen, ENT consultant, adding, as they shook hands, 'And this is Mrs Fellowes, James, our new ward sister.'

Why is he here? was Anna's first thought, then learned that Fay Cotton, the ectopic patient, had developed an infected throat. 'I regret to say she has acute streptococcal tonsillitis, Sister.' James Petersen looked with undisguised pleasure at Anna's lovely face.

'She's been moved into number two side-ward to prevent droplet infection,' Simon put in tersely. 'The last thing we need is the whole ward going down with it. I suppose she picked it up from one of her visitors?' His expression was grim.

'She may well have done so, but we can't check on everyone who comes through the doors.' Anna looked vexed. 'But it's a great pity, just as she was doing so well; she seemed particularly well when I left here on Friday night.'

'Respiratory infections can manifest themselves very quickly,' Petersen said, still staring at Anna as though at a mirage. 'I've suggested spraying her throat with amethocaine hydrochlor...better than gargling, which won't reach the whole inflammatory area and may increase her pain. Give her lozenges to suck—they'll increase her saliva and prevent her neck stiffening up.

'I'll see her again tomorrow.. .sooner if you're worried.' He was talking mainly to Anna, walking backwards towards the door, then as he bumped against the jamb he said, leaning slightly forward, 'Didn't I see you at the Collingham Show on Saturday, watching the riding events? You were on the same side of the ring as me... with that handsome husband of yours.'

'Not my husband—he's dead. I was there with a friend,' Anna replied, a little more crushingly than she'd intended, aware as she was of Simon moving impatiently at her side.

'I was certain I'd seen you somewhere before and then remembered that it was here, but we'd never been introduced, had we?' Petersen's smile flashed out once more.

'No, we hadn't.' Anna willed him to go—there were new patients to see, there was the report to be dealt with and she wanted to ask Simon about the abandoned child.

In the end it was he who got Petersen moving by all but nudging him out, thanking him so fulsomely as he did so that his tactics went unobserved. 'So, you enjoyed your weekend, did you?' He turned back to Anna again.

'Very much.' She moved to the desk, feeling more in charge, as well as more divided from him, behind its solid bulk.

'The Collingham Show is well worth a visit. I went to it last year.' He lifted a globe paperweight, balanced it in his hand and then set it down, waiting silently as though hoping to be told more. Instead, seizing the opportunity, Anna asked him about the baby.

'They told me in Reception that the mother turned up, so is everything all right?'

'Depends—' Simon's expression was grim '—on how you look at it. The kid's still upstairs in Maternity, abandoned yet again. Neither his mother nor his outraged grandmother want to recognise his existence.'

'Then the mother's gone home?'

'She needed suturing but was otherwise OK and, yes, she went home after breakfast today—as happy as Larry, according to Sister Webb who's exploding all over the place.'

'Was she a teenage mother?'

'Eighteen, name of Dawn Payne. Her mother insists that she didn't know Dawn was pregnant.'

'But that's ridiculous!' Anna exclaimed. 'Of
course
she must have known!'

'Not necessarily,' Simon corrected. 'Dawn is a very big girl, obese even—like her mother—which can mask a great many things. Mrs Payne works in London and is away all day, so hardly sees the girl.
She's
unemployed and just drifts around, which is how she got pregnant, no doubt. She doesn't know who the father is, says "it was a party job", had no antenatal care whatsoever and just hoped "it" would go away.'

'Good Lord!' Anna was still trying to get her breath.

'In the event, she gave birth at a friend's house in the small hours of Saturday. The friend, whom she won't name, dumped the child here several hours later.'

'But... Was it all right?'

'Messy.. .wrapped around in a duvet cover. It.. .or rather "he"; let's humanise him, poor little devil.. .was still attached to his cord with the placenta lying on his chest. According to Mrs Payne, the first she knew of it was when Dawn arrived home at lunchtime on Sunday and fainted on the step. She brought her here straight away, which at least showed common sense.'

'But she didn't want to see the baby... It was her grandchild, for heaven's sake!'

'She refused to see him; Dawn wouldn't look at him. So far as they are concerned, he never happened. Unless Dawn has a change of heart, which is very unlikely, he'll come up for adoption in due course after a period of fostering.'

'How was it,' Anna asked, still taking all this in, 'that you were involved? I didn't think you were usually here on a Saturday.'

'Quite right,' he said, 'I'm not, but I was called in to an RTA victim with pelvic injuries. I was in Casualty when one of the paramedics spotted the bag, heard the baby wailing and brought it to me when I was washing my hands! There was a fair bit of excitement and commotion for a time.'

'I can believe it.' Anna pictured the scene and then, returning to matters a little nearer home, asked if the pelvic injury patient was in the gynae ward.

'No, in Intensive Care, but later on today she'll be transferred to one of the ortho wards, where she'll also be attended by Eric Salter's urology team. She has bladder injuries, along with a crushed pelvic ring.'

'Poor woman,' Anna sympathised, but she was nevertheless glad that she wasn't being transferred to Gynae, which would almost certainly have meant putting off one of the patients due to be admitted that week.

'A weekend's respite vanishes like sea mist once you're back in harness, Anna,' Simon observed, looking beyond her through the window into the ward. She was about to ask him if he wanted to see anyone in particular when he said that he had to go and did so, talking about returning later on.

With the ward lunches out of the way, and the quiet hour begun, Jean came in to deal with the hand-over report, ending with details of the five new patients who had come in the day before.

'Nil by mouth for all of them as from midnight,' she said, 'except Mrs Spry for conization—she's last on the list. It's a hell of a business about Fay Cotton, isn't it...? Difficult too to get her to take enough fluid, although a straw seems to help. Her throat is absolutely raw, poor love; I feel so sorry for her. Come to that, I'm sorry for
us,
having the chore of barrier nursing on top of everything else.'

Sighing theatrically, she returned to the ward, followed shortly by Anna, who wanted to do her round before visiting began. Afterwards, slipping on a gown and mask, Anna went to the side-ward to see Fay.