Nothing Left to Give. Caroline Anderson
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with a moppet of fluffy blonde curls and brilliant blue eyes above a cherub’s smile.
‘Lovely kids.’
Beth jumped and turned. She had been miles away, in London with Matthew and the family he had denied.
‘Yes—yes, they are.’
She took the cup of tea and sat back in the chair, preparing to be grilled. It didn’t happen. Julie asked a few very general questions, flicked through her application and smiled.
‘I can’t think why you want to work here, but as far as I’m concerned you’re heaven-sent,’ she told Beth. ‘Since Stephanie left last week I’ve been rushed off my feet, and you’re available now, aren’t you?’
Beth nodded. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Good. That’s brilliant. When Gideon comes in I’ll tell him to rubber-stamp you.’ She laughed and stood up. ‘Will you excuse me? I’ve got an asthma clinic at four and I really ought to go and prepare some worksheets for the group. He won’t be long—help yourself to more tea.’
She went, pulling the door to behind her, and left Beth alone in the surgery. She didn’t have more tea. For some reason she discovered she was nervous, and another cup would have sat heavily on her butterflies. Perhaps I should, she thought with a soft laugh. Maybe it would drown them.
She looked at the photos again, picking up the one of the baby and tracing the froth of curls thoughtfully with a neat, pink-tipped finger.
Gideon, she thought, rolling the name round on her tongue, tasting it. Gideon Pendragon. Unusual name. A mixture of old Cornish and American mid-west, hard, reliable, yet with a dash of excitement.
She gave a snort of laughter. He was probably short, fat and balding!
He was also late.
She put the photo down and paced across to the window. She was getting irritated. Couldn’t someone else have gone out on the call for him? It really wasn’t good enough. It was nearly four o’clock already!
Oh, well, look on the bright side, she thought; by the time you get back to London the rush-hour will be over.
She heard his voice first, low, deep, a reassuring rumble in the corridor.
There was a muttered expletive, then firm footsteps striding towards the door.
‘Miss Turner? I do apologise.’
She stood up. He was big. It wasn’t just height, although he was certainly tall enough, but there was a solidity, a substance about him that was more than physical. It was deeper than that, something that shouted dependability and inner strength, reliability and utter trustworthiness.
He thrust out his hand—large, square, of a piece with the man himself.
‘I’m sorry to keep you—Gideon Pendragon.’
She placed her hand in his and felt it engulfed in a warm and reassuring grip.
‘Beth Turner,’ she replied, and looked up into his face.
Her smile faltered. It was a striking face, an older version of the boy in the photograph, but it was his eyes that stopped her in her tracks.
Grey-green in colour, they were beautiful, bracketed by wickedly long black lashes. They were also the oldest, most world-weary eyes she had ever seen. Her soft heart reached out to him.
‘Problems?’ she said gently.
‘You could say that.’ He gave a short laugh and thrust strong fingers through the unruly strands of his straight, black hair. ‘People never die at a convenient time, do they?’
If she hadn’t seen the eyes, she might have dismissed him as callous. As it was she gave him time to pull himself back into the present and pick up her file. He flicked through it and tossed it back on the desk, dropping into the chair and leaning back, his hands locked behind his head.
‘So, what did Julie say? She’s usually pretty direct.’
Beth’s mouth twitched. ‘She said she’d tell you to rubber-stamp it.’
He smiled then, and his harsh features softened, bringing life to those tired eyes. ‘Good. I only had one real question.’
‘Why a part-time temporary job in the middle of nowhere?’
He grinned. ‘You were expecting it.’
‘Sort of.’ She returned the grin. ‘Because I need to work, but not necessarily flat out for a while. Because I could do with a breathing-space, time to find out what I really want from my career. Because I was ready for a change, and there didn’t seem to be a full-time permanent job that said, “Take me,” written all over it.’
He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘Why did you need a breathing space?’
She looked away. He saw too much with those eyes. ‘Let’s just say there was a conflict of interests.’
‘A man?’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t enlarge on it. The details were sordid and irrelevant.
‘So, you’re running away.’
‘No.’ She met his eyes again, determined to get the general principle straight, if not the fine print. ‘I don’t run away, Dr Pendragon. Not from anything. I simply decided it was time to move on.’
He chuckled. ‘Touché. So, you’re looking for a bolt-hole to lick your wounds while you decide what you want from life. Well, I won’t pretend we aren’t glad to have you, Miss Turner. Stephanie, our part-timer, has had to stop work rather earlier in her pregnancy than she’d planned, and we’re up a gum tree. You’re like a gift from the gods, frankly, and we aren’t in a position to be choosy about people’s reasons for wanting to take the job. Nurses of your calibre simply aren’t interested, so whatever your motives, welcome.’
That was it. She had the job. Stunned, she reached over the desk and took his outstretched hand. A slow smile touched his lips. ‘When can you start?’
She gave an expressive little shrug. ‘Whenever—Monday?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’ She hesitated, totally taken aback. ‘Well, I suppose I could—I haven’t got anywhere to live, and I’ve got nothing here. I’d have to go back to London tonight and get some things to tide me over till the weekend, but I suppose I could put up in a hotel or something.’
‘I’ve got a flat—over the old coach house. It’s just one room and a bathroom. The idea was that William would have it once he goes away to college next year so it wouldn’t be for very long, but as the job’s only temporary I don’t suppose that would matter. It’s got heating and everything—do you want to have a look?’
She nodded, swept along by the current.
‘Yes—why not? It sounds ideal.’
‘Good—shall we?’
He held the door for her, then led her down the corridor to Reception. ‘I’m just taking Miss Turner home to show her the flat—I won’t be long. Oh, and stick her on the payroll, Molly—she’s starting tomorrow.’
And that was it. Bemused, Beth followed him out of the side door and round into the street. The surgery was just off the market square that dominated the centre of the little town, and they walked along one side of the square and down a narrow little lane that cut through between the houses. They passed the church, built of brick and flint, solid and homely, and then beyond the church they came to a large Georgian house, the mellow cream of old Suffolk bricks, standing four-square in a neatly tended lawn.
‘What a lovely house,’ Beth remarked. ‘Very des-res.’
He laughed softly. ‘I’m glad you like it—sometimes I forget how lucky I am.’
‘It’s yours?