Practice Makes Perfect. Caroline Anderson
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Sam froze in his tracks, turned slowly to Lydia and glared at her with hostile disbelief.
‘Let me get one thing perfectly straight,’ he said coldly. This is my practice. Understand? Mine. Officially, legally, all signed and sealed and recognised by the relevant authorities. It is not up for grabs, I am not going anywhere, and it is not open to discussion. If you want a job I suggest you pick up a professional journal and find out what’s available—because this one isn’t.’
He ran down the stairs, and she yelled after him, ‘How dare you speak to me like that in my own house?’
He stopped halfway and ran back up, pointing at the connecting door. ‘That’s your house, Miss Moore. The heating’s on, so’s the electricity. I’m going to the village shop. I suggest you get your things moved off my property by the time I get back.’
He turned on his heel and ran back down the stairs, and a few seconds later Lydia heard the surgery door bang and then the revving of a car engine.
He shot off the drive with a spray of gravel, and the sound seemed to release her from her trance. She leapt to her feet and ran into the bedroom, wrenching off his dressing-gown as if she could distance herself further from him by doing so. Then she snatched up her things, dashing away the tears that would keep gathering on her lashes and clogging up her view.
Damn him! How dared he speak to her like that? How dared he throw her out? First thing on Monday morning she was going to see her solicitor to find out about the will, because one thing was certain—living next to him was going to be insufferable!
She dragged her cases along the floor to the landing, opened the door and half dragged, half carried them up the three steps to the main part of the house. She got them as far as the door of her bedroom, and then collapsed on the landing floor in tears.
Why was she always rejected? First her father, then her mother, then Graham; even Jim Holden had found someone to replace her. And now the one person who had always had time for her was gone, and in his place was a cruel, unfeeling career doctor, who was probably hideously efficient and hated by all her grandfather’s patients. Well, damn him!
She forgot his kindness of this morning, his caring and compassion, the way he had given up his bed for her. Gone was all memory of his arms cradling her against his chest, soothing her until her grief had run its course and she was quiet. Instead she remembered only his harsh words, and the fact that he had thrown her out.
‘Your practice, indeed! We’ll see about that!’ she yelled at the door, and, scrubbing away the last of the tears, she pulled on her clothes, ran downstairs to the hall and picked up the phone, dialling with shaking fingers.
‘Hello? Sir James? Hello, it’s Lydia Moore. I’m sorry to disturb you at home,’ she began, all ready to launch into the fray.
‘Lydia, my dear! How are you? I was so sorry to hear about your grandfather—a tragic loss to the medical profession, not to mention you … tragic loss.’
Lydia swallowed. ‘Yes, it was. I wish someone had let me know——’
‘We did try, my dear, but there was no time. The end was quite quick, I gather. And of course Dr Davenport was wonderful to him. Got a locum in at his own expense so that he could be with your grandfather till the last. Like a son—better than a son, if you’ll forgive my saying so.’
Lydia could. She had grown used to the idea that her father had been a cruel and unfeeling man, but she really didn’t want to listen to Sir James praising Sam, either!
He continued, ‘Harry was extremely fond of him, y’know. They became very close over the months, and nothing was too much trouble. I understand he’s left him the practice premises—very appropriate, don’t you think? He certainly deserves them. What are you going to do about the rest of the house?’
Lydia frowned. In the face of so much praise from the chairman of the local branch of the FHSA, she could hardly criticise Sam without sounding whining and ungrateful, so she stalled. ‘I haven’t made a decision yet, Sir James. It all depends on where I end up working——’
‘Nice little practice up near Diss needs a new partner—might consider a young woman, given the right encouragement. Want me to have a word?’
Here was her chance. ‘Well, actually, Sir James, I was rather hoping to have taken over from my grandfather——’
Yes, I know. Pity about that. Given another couple of years’ experience, we might even have considered you, but it’s a big practice, and very widespread. We’d even suggested that Harry should take a partner, but young Davenport seems to be managing admirably on his own. He’s set up links with Hastings three miles away to cover each other’s on call, so they’ve got their free time sorted out. Maybe if the population increases we could justify another post, but I don’t think there’s any likelihood of his leaving in the foreseeable future. However, Harry’s patients all seem to be delighted with his successor, and I must say, from this end, he seems much more efficient than Harry ever was!’
Lydia sighed. More praise! Was there no end to the virtue of this paragon?
‘I think Gramps found the paperwork of the new contract all a bit daunting——’
Sir James laughed. ‘Don’t we all, my dear? Still, if it helps to make a more efficient health service—let me know what you decide about that other job, won’t you? It’s a big group—they could afford to take someone without too much experience. In the meantime, we could always use another locum in the area.’
‘Yes, I’ll consider it. Thank you, Sir James.’
She hung up, her last hopes dashed.
Sam Davenport was obviously a well-liked and respected member of the professsion already, and it wouldn’t help her case at all to go making waves.
She wandered slowly through the house, touching familiar things, hearing the past echo in her mind, until she found herself in the conservatory again.
Tucking her feet up under her bottom, she curled up in the old wicker rocking-chair and stared sadly down the neglected garden.
She had come home before she had really got over the shock of Graham’s defection, to take up the reins of her future with Gramps because she had had an uneasy suspicion about him—only to have her world snatched out from under her feet at a stroke.
Her unease had been too little, too late, and now he was gone; her dreams lay in the dust, trampled underfoot by a man whom everyone else seemed to hold in almost reverent awe—and who clearly despised her as a gold-digger.
If he only knew! She didn’t want the terrible responsibility for the crumbling old house—God knew how she would maintain it. She supposed it was worth quite a bit, but it was entirely academic because she would never sell it unless driven to it in absolute desperation.
As if to press home the point, the skies opened again and she noticed that the guttering was leaking near the corner—well away from the practice end, otherwise no doubt the highly efficient Dr Davenport would have dealt with it!
Suppressing a shiver, she turned back to the house and walked round it again, this time looking with the candid eyes of an estate agent instead of through the rose-tinted lenses of nostalgia. Everywhere there were signs of neglect. It was clean enough, but the paintwork was old and chipped, the wallpaper faded, and some of the upstairs ceilings showed signs of damp, unlike the surgery and flat, all of which had been recently decorated and recarpeted throughout. She cast another despairing glance around the sitting-room.
Well, looking at it wasn’t going to improve things, she decided, straightening her spine, and she needed something to take her mind off Gramps.
She found his car keys on the pegboard by the back door, and let herself out. Mercifully the old Rover started first time, and she drove into Ipswich and found a DIY store. There she bought paint, brushes, wallpaper paste, a job-lot of sale wallpaper, a hot-air stripper and a wallpaper steam