Practice Makes Perfect. Caroline Anderson
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rang—Mrs Leeming had decided that Dr Davenport should be given the dubious privilege of sewing up young David, and she would be bringing him in to the surgery. Would that be all right?
‘Fine. I’ll see when I can fit you in,’ he said a trifle abruptly, and hung up, eyes scanning the kitchen for anything else to eat. He really should have remembered about the village shop. There was nothing fit for human consumption in the entire place—in fact, he doubted that the mice would bother with half of what was left. He hoped it wasn’t an omen—it was his weekend on call.
Giving food up as a bad job, he downed his coffee, made another one and took it downstairs with him.
As usual, going into the consulting-room restored his sense of balance, and he sat in the old leather chair, propped his feet on the edge of Harry Moore’s desk and sighed contentedly.
He had never meant to be a country GP. Hospital medicine—probably cardiology, or neurology, or one of the other prestigious branches—had beckoned, until a chance comment by his father one day had prompted him to investigate the possibilities.
They had been arguing, as usual, about the benefits of education and informed opinion, and his father, one of the old school, who felt that the patient should be kept as ignorant as was humanly possible of the workings of his own body, had turned to Sam with a disgusted snort and told him that the next thing would be that he’d be going into general practice.
Sam had smiled grimly, congratulated his father on an accurate character assessment for once in his life, and stormed out of the prestigious Harley Street consulting-rooms with his pride intact and the seeds of revenge burning in his mind.
By the following day the anger had gone, but the idea remained, and Sam had found, at last, what he had been looking for.
That had been five years before, and now, thanks in part to his father and thanks also to Harry Moore, an old-timer from the other side of the coin, he was here, a country doctor in the best tradition of Richard Gordon, with nearly two and a half thousand patients all dependent on him for their health and welfare. It was a huge practice for one man, covering two villages and their outlying farms, and Harry had talked originally of taking Sam on as a junior partner when he recovered from his illness, but the best-laid plans and all that …
Sam knew it would make sense to take on another partner—had even made noises on the subject to George Hastings, another one-man outfit three miles away, with whom he had set up an on-call rota—but his previous experience had made him very wary. Working alone was best, for him at least, for as long as he could manage it. When he couldn’t—well then, there would be time to think again.
Sam broke from his reverie and went out into the waiting-room to greet the first of the patients.
Almost two hours and fifteen patients later, he locked up the surgery and dispensary, ran upstairs for a warm, dry coat and let himself out into the night.
The rain had stopped a short while before, but the trees were dripping steadily and he turned up his coat collar and shrugged down into its depths. At least the rain had washed away the last of the slush.
His breath misting on the cold air, he headed off down the main street towards the pub, where he bought a portion of hot stew and a jacket potato to take away, declining the offer of a swift half with the old boys in the corner. He really was too tired tonight to do anything but crawl home and go to bed.
As he turned back into the drive he noticed the luggage stacked neatly in the front porch by the main door. Frowning, he crossed the gravel and flicked his torch curiously over the battered cases.
A luggage label caught his eye; juggling the stew, he flipped the label and scanned it with the torch.
‘Dr Lydia Moore.’
That meant only one thing to Sam—trouble, with a capital T.
Sighing heavily, he let himself back in, put the cases in the surgery, stashed the stew and potato in the oven, turned it on low and set about finding the missing woman.
When he had checked all the downstairs rooms he shone the torch through the glass door that led to the conservatory, and blinked in surprise. Snuggled up on Harry’s favourite old chair, with her long dark hair falling like spun silk across her face, was a tall, slender girl, her tanned legs curled up under her, her hand tucked beneath the soft curve of her cheek like a child. Her lashes lay like black crescents against her fine cheekbones, emphasising the delicate structure of her face, and where her coat had fallen open he could see the soft thrust of her breast against the thin fabric of her blouse.
As he watched she shivered and shifted slightly in the chair, murmuring in her sleep.
Squashing the sudden protective urge that arose in him, Sam pushed open the door and ruthlessly shone the torch in her eyes.
Lydia was woken by a fierce light against her eyelids. Blinking and turning her head away, she straightened her stiff neck and sat up slowly, trying to see beyond the beam of light to the person holding the torch.
‘Gramps?’ she murmured.
The torch-bearer lowered the light so that it formed a pool around his feet. She knew he was a man because of the tan leather brogues and the soft greeny-grey of the fine wool trousers, but other than that she could tell nothing—not his height, hair colour, age—nothing.
However, she didn’t think a rapist would be likely to wear brogues, so she rose to her feet, straightened her clothes and held out her hand.
‘I’m Lydia Moore——’
‘I know,’ he said brusquely, and turned away. ‘You’d better come in.’
He led her through the dining-room, out into the hall and through the door at the end into the practice premises.
There he switched off his torch and turned, and she got her first look at this stranger in her grandfather’s house.
He was fairly tall, perhaps six feet, well-built but not heavy, and his thick hair was the colour of polished chestnuts, short and well cut, but rumpled as if he had run his hands through it. One heavy lock had escaped and fallen forward over his eyes, and as she watched he thrust it back with impatient fingers and she was able to see his face clearly.
His mouth was drawn into a tight line, his full lips compressed with … anger? And the hazel eyes, which she guessed were more usually softened with sympathy and humour, were glittering with irritation and—yes, it was anger, and, unless she was mistaken, directed at her.
‘May I ask who you are and why you’re here?’ she enquired coolly, and he gave a short, humourless laugh.
‘Didn’t your grandfather tell you?’
Realisation came with a flash. ‘You’re the locum,’ she said stupidly, and added, ‘I’m sorry, I should have realised, but it’s been a horrendous flight and I was exhausted. Of course, Gramps has talked about you. I hope I didn’t startle you, turning up like this without any warning.’
Oh, I knew you were coming,’ he said enigmatically, and his voice was tinged with bitterness. ‘As for why I’m here, someone had to be, and you were too busy chasing rainbows and playing God to do your duty by a feeble old man——’
‘Feeble? Gramps? Don’t be ridiculous! There never was such a tough old bird——’
Once, maybe, but not recently. Recently he needed you, but where were you? Gadding about in some God-forsaken little mission hospital, saving souls when you should have been here by his side, holding his hand, washing him, changing his sheets, sitting with him through the long hours of the night when the pain became too much, but no, you had to play God in your paddy fields with the natives and let him rot here all alone! Charity begins at home, Lydia—didn’t anyone ever tell you that?’ His voice was shaking with anger, all the more forceful for being held so firmly in check.
‘I’m here now,’ she said furiously, stung by his attitude and shocked by his words, ‘and I’ll thank you to mind your own business!’