Practice Makes Perfect
Caroline Anderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

As THE taxi-driver stacked the last of her cases on the step Lydia gave him a weary smile and an excessively generous tip, and then watched him out of sight.

Then, and only then, did she allow her gaze to wander lovingly over the familiar contours of the warm red-brick Georgian house.

Home.

She thought she had never been so glad to be back. In the raw wetness of a blustery February afternoon, after a horrendous flight from Calcutta with a long unscheduled stop in Zurich for emergency engine repairs, Lydia felt the icy blast of the wind clean through to her bones, and welcomed it.

A hot bath and a long sleep were definitely what the doctor ordered, she thought with a wry grin, and, slipping her key into the lock, she turned it and leant against the door. Nothing happened. With a slight frown she tried the key again and heard the lock turn, but still the door held firm.

‘Funny,’ she muttered. ‘It must be bolted. Wonder why?’

Abandoning her luggage, she went round the side of the big house and made her way to the kitchen door, casting a critical eye over the garden as she went. What she saw made her frown again, but a sudden slashing downpour worthy of April dragged her attention from the overrun herbaceous border to the more immediate problem of finding a way in—and fast!

Once again, though, she found herself thwarted, and, shivering down into the inadequate layers of her ancient mac, she glared at the door and worked her way back to the front door again, ignoring the plants that thrashed her legs with drenching regularity.

What was going on?

The surgery was in darkness, and peering in through the windows told her nothing—nothing, that was, that she didn’t already know, in other words, Gramps was nowhere to be seen, there was nobody manning the surgery and she was getting wetter by the minute.

One last hope remained, and, tackling the sodden borders again, she struggled round to the other side and rattled the door of the conservatory.

Joy! It creaked open, and then slammed shut with a crash as a gust of wind caught it and snatched it out of her hand.

Breaking the sudden silence that followed, the sound of the rain pelting down on to the glass roof and gurgling in the gutters only served to soothe away the feeling of uncertainty that Lydia experienced.

The wicker rocker was where she had expected to find it, a little damp because of the time of year but still offering comfort to the travel-weary. Snuggling into its lumpy old cushions, she let her eyes drift shut and settled down to wait for Gramps.

Sam gathered up his bag, slammed the car door and made a run for the house, letting himself in by the side-door. He shed his trench coat on the way up to his fiat, and hung it over the bath to drip while he filled the kettle and hunted in the fridge for something quick and easy to eat before evening surgery.

While the kettle boiled he munched on a cold tandoori chicken leg and replayed the messages on his answer-phone.

Mrs Jacobs was wondering if he could fit her in tonight because her waterworks were giving her trouble again and she didn’t think she should wait until Monday; Judith, the district nurse, had flu and would be off for the next few days; the village shop had his order ready and could he go down and collect it before five-thirty—answer: no, because it was now ten past and he had evening surgery in twenty minutes; and young David Leeming had cut his hand and his mother didn’t know if it needed stitching and should she take him along to the hospital or would Dr Davenport be able to deal with it? Dr Davenport never did find out what she had decided, because she was still procrastinating when the tape ran out.

He rang Judith, told her to stay in bed, drink plenty and take paracetomol QDS, which got him a flea in his ear for waking her up to tell her something so obvious. He apologised meekly, promised to call in the morning and hung up, a frown creasing his brow.

With the practice running at full stretch, half the village in the grip of a vile flu bug and the other half falling over on the slush and sustaining fractures, sprains and other less serious injuries in addition to the usual work-load, the very last thing Sam needed was Judith out of the running.

He went into the bathroom, changed places with his mac and showered briskly, towelling himself roughly dry in the kitchen as he made a coffee and rummaged in the fridge again. Coming up with a yoghurt two weeks past its sell-by date, the curled remains of a quiche and a flaccid lettuce, he opted for safety and put the last two bits of bread into the toaster, hung up the towel and dressed quickly.

Unfortunately the toast got stuck. Cursing fluently and sucking his burned fingertips, he opened the window and chucked the burnt offerings out into the rain-swept night, and slammed the window back down unnecessarily hard. It had probably been mouldy, anyway, he thought with weary resignation.

The phone 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!’

‘It is my business!’ he shouted, his iron control slipping. ‘When there’s no one else here that makes it my business! I was here when he needed me—and where the hell were you?’

She drew herself up, and looked him in the eye. ‘Playing God—you’ve said so yourself, at least twice. Well, thank you for your help. I’ll take over now. I’m back for good, so I can run the practice——’

‘Over my dead body will you run my practice!’

They glared at each other across the waiting-room, and slowly his words sank in.

‘Your practice? Since when has it been your practice?’

He let out his breath on a long sigh. ‘Since December. Didn’t your grandfather tell you?’

She shook her head. ‘No. No, he always calls you the locum. Well, recently he’s called you Sam, but he never said anything about your taking over the practice.’

Sam gave a snort of derision. ‘I don’t suppose he thought you’d be interested. After all, you were out there in India with your lover——’

‘He wasn’t my lover!’ she protested, almost amused by the preposterous suggestion.

‘No? What’s the matter, wasn’t he taken in by the innocent-little-girl act?’

Lydia thought of Jim Holden, the doctor whom she had gone to India to help, and she could barely suppress a smile. In his late fifties, widowed for ten years, he was a gentle father-figure, and when he had come back from his leave with the lovely, sweet-natured Anne as his wife Lydia had been only too pleased for him—pleased, and relieved, because Anne was a doctor and so Lydia was superfluous and could terminate her contract three months early and come home to Gramps—because, reading between the lines, all was not well and he needed her. But Jim? She let the smile show.

‘On the contrary, he took it very seriously. He was very protective towards me—not to mention unfailingly polite!’

Sam gave a nasty little smile. ‘You’ll forgive me if I’m not so polite, but, you see, I happen to find your sort particularly odious. Still, I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies. At least you didn’t make the mistake of turning up in time for the funeral and feigning distress.’

Lydia all but stamped her foot. ‘How dare you? I’ll have you know that, when my grandfather dies, not only will I be at his funeral, but my “distress” will be totally genuine!’

‘Very touching, but a trifle misplaced. The funeral was last week. I’m afraid you’ve missed your chance to put on this devastating display of genuine emotion, but never mind. At least you’ve got the house. I imagine that’s what you wanted? Oh, and the practice, but I’m afraid you can’t have that. It’s mine, and, furthermore, so are the premises. He willed them to me. You can contest it, of course, but I doubt if it will get you anywhere.’

He had turned away, straightening a stack of magazines on the table in the corner with an angry thump, and so he failed to see the colour drain slowly from her face. As the meaning of his words penetrated through the fog of her tiredness and confusion she felt shock like cold hands race over her skin, and she started to tremble.

‘What?’ she tried to say, but her voice deserted her and all she managed was a croak.

He turned back to her, a savage retort on his lips, but it died a death as he saw her face, pale with shock, and her wide, sightless eyes that tried to focus on him. Oh, my God,’ he murmured, ‘you mean you really didn’t know?’

At his words she gave a little whimper of distress, and with a startled exclamation he crossed to her and caught her against his chest as her legs buckled.

Her eyelids fluttered closed, and he could see her lips moving, forming the word ‘no’, over and over again. Cursing himself fluently, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her up to his flat, putting her down gently on the sofa.

About the only palatable thing left in the house was the brandy, and he poured both of them a stiff measure and pressed a glass into her hand, curling her stiff fingers around the bowl and urging it to her lips.

She coughed and tried to lower the glass, but he made her take another sip, and then took it from her and placed it on the table within reach. Picking up his own, he downed a hearty gulp and then set it down on the table with hers.

Finally he met her eyes, and the pain he saw there made him doubt all his preconceived ideas about her being a cold-hearted, gold-digging little bitch. She looked lost, afraid, and absolutely desolate, and he felt self-loathing rise up like bile to swamp him.

He knew he ought to apologise, but there weren’t any words he could think of that would make things better, so he stayed silent while she watched him.

Ater a moment she struggled upright and walked over to the rain-lashed window, staring out into the chilly night while she nursed her brandy.

‘How?’ she asked after a long while, and he didn’t pretend not to understand.

‘Cancer,’ he said succinctly. ‘He refused a gastrectomy last October. That’s when I took over the practice. But you know all that——’

She shook her head. ‘No. No, he told me nothing. I knew he hadn’t been well—he told me he had ulcers and that you had taken over just until he was better, but he didn’t say anything about giving up, or … or …’

‘Dying?’ Sam said quietly, and watched as a shudder ran through her delicate frame.

When she spoke her voice was a harsh whisper, a mere thread of sound against the beating of the rain on the glass.

‘When?’

Sam ran his hand wearily over his face. ‘Two weeks ago tomorrow—in the early hours of Saturday morning.’

She shifted restlessly for a moment and then was still again, as if she wanted to run away and was holding herself there by a superhuman effort. ‘Did—did he know?’

‘Oh, yes. I think he knew almost from the beginning. At first he might have thought he had ulcers, but I think he must have realised quite quickly that it was more serious. He went into hospital in October for a gastroscopy, which confirmed it, but he knew it was too late. His actual death was caused by pneumonia, but it was only a matter of days.’ Sam paused, then added gently, ‘He was ready to go.’

Lydia nodded. ‘Yes, I can imagine. He hated feeling ill.’ She swallowed. ‘Where was he?’

Sam closed his eyes, remembering. ‘Here, where he wanted to be. He had a private nurse, but I got a locum in to cover when I knew it was getting close, and I stayed with him then till the end.’

Thank you——’

There’s no need to thank me!’ Sam snapped, much too harshly, and then more gently, ‘I did it for him, to give him dignity, and peace. He was a good man, and I thought the world of him.’

Her shoulders stiffened as the pain knifed through her, and she turned back to him, her soft grey eyes like pools of mist in her grief.

‘I think I’d like to go to bed now,’ she said in a voice brittle with control, and headed towards the door at the top of the stairs which led through to the main house.

‘You can’t sleep in there,’ he told her, ‘the power’s off and the place will be damp and freezing. Have my bed. I’ll sleep here on the sofa.’

He thrust open the bedroom door and flicked on the light. The quilt was rumpled where he had sat on it to tie his shoes, and his dressing-gown was flung over the foot of the bed, but it looked soft and inviting. She nodded briefly.

‘I’ll bring your cases up—I put them in the surgery,’ he murmured, and left her to it.

Lydia sat down on the edge of the bed and stared blindly at her feet. She couldn’t believe that Gramps was gone, that she would never again hear his big, hearty laugh or feel the warmth of his arms around her. He had always been there for her, when everything else had failed her, when her father had gone off and left her and her mother alone, when the pain had become too much and her mother had taken her life—always, through it all, he had been there to catch her when she fell and kiss her better. And now …

She was dimly aware of Sam coming back into the room, of him helping her to her feet and easing off her mac, and then, when she still stood there, taking off her blouse and skirt as well, then pushing her gently down on to the bed and covering her with the quilt.

She was shaking, either from the cold or from shock, and he came back moments later with a hot water-bottle which he tucked into her arms. She thought he smoothed back the hair from her face, but she wasn’t sure because the touch was so light and she seemed disconnected from her body, as if it belonged to someone else.

Gradually her shudders died away and sleep claimed her exhausted mind.

Sam turned off the light, pulled the door to and gave the sofa a dirty look. Pulling pillows and blankets out of the cupboard on the landing, he undressed to his briefs and wrapped himself in the blankets, stretching out as well as he could on the inadequately short two-seater.

By the time he had eaten the stew had been dried up and the potato hard as iron. Hunger chewed at his insides and guilt tortured his conscience.

It had taken him all of ten seconds to realise that he had made a dreadful mistake, that, for all her faults, and he was sure she must be riddled with them, she was not a gold-digger and her distress at her grandfather’s death had been not only genuine but frighteningly deep.

He had been quite worried about her when he had come up with her luggage, but she seemed to be sleeping now. He would have to apologise in the morning for the way he had broken the news to her, but he really believed she should have had his letters, the first telling her to come home to her grandfather, the second informing her of the date of the funeral.

He shifted on to his back, propped his legs on the table and crossed his arms over his chest. She still should have been here! She should have realised that he was ill and needed her. Damn it, day after day the old man had asked for her! If Sam had only realised that she hadn’t known he would have sent for her sooner.

The moon broke through a hole in the clouds and tracked steadily across the sky, and Sam lay and watched it, and wondered why old Dr Moore hadn’t told Lydia that he was dying.

He woke suddenly when the room was still in darkness, and lay for a moment wondering what had disturbed him.

Then he heard it again, a thin, high moan, an animal keening that cut through him to the bone.

Untangling the blankets, he stumbled off the sofa and into the bedroom, but it was empty. The sound came again, and he followed it downstairs and into the surgery.

He found her, curled into a ball on the old leather armchair at the desk, with her arms wrapped tightly round a cushion, rocking gently back and forth while the terrible sound of grief was torn from her throat.

Her eyes were dry and sightless, and she ignored him as he lifted her from the chair and sat down with her cradled against the broad expanse of his chest. She was wearing his dressing-gown but still she was shivering, and he hadn’t taken the time to pull on any clothes, so he stretched out and turned on the electric heater. It could be a long night.

Then, holding her close, he rocked her, brushing the hair from her eyes and pressing his lips to her crown as if he could take away the pain.

He could feel the tension building in her, and then suddenly the dam burst and the tears came, accompanied by huge, racking sobs that gradually died away to leave her spent and weak against his shoulder. She slept then, relaxed into the curve of his arms, and he stayed where he was, holding her quietly, until the dawn lightened the sky.

Then she stirred and sat up, embarrassed and bewildered, and he smiled slightly and let her go.

‘I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I couldn’t sleep. I just felt…’ Her hands fluttered helplessly for a moment before she clamped them together, ‘I wanted to be near him.’

‘I know. Don’t apologise, I often feel the same. Would you like a cup of tea?’

She nodded. ‘Please. I think I’ll just wash my face—perhaps I’ll feel better then.’

He led the way upstairs, and while she cleaned up he put the kettle on and pulled on his jeans and a jumper, suddenly conscious of his scanty attire.

When she emerged from the bathroom, her face pink and scrubbed, her hair brushed and tied back in a pony-tail, and looking about seventeen, he was shocked to feel himself respond to her.

Technically speaking, she was a scrawny little thing for all her height, weighing next to nothing, her face too small for those ridiculously large eyes, her mouth full and soft and vulnerable, and yet he wanted her. His dressing-gown was wrapped tightly round her slim frame, the belt accentuating her tiny waist. He was sure he could span it with his fingers, and his palms tingled with the need to cup the soft jut of her breasts in his hands. She should have looked ridiculous, but there was something about her, her quiet dignity, the graceful way she moved those absurdly long legs as she walked towards him, that lifted her above criticism and made her beautiful. Sam felt the unbidden surge of desire, mingled dangerously with the urge to protect and nurture, and when their eyes met it was as if she saw right through him, and he felt ashamed.

Tea,’ he said economically, and thrust a mug into her hand, taking his and standing by the window.

She sat down among the tangled blankets and sighed.

‘I’m sorry you had to sleep on this; it can’t have been comfortable,’ she offered, and he shrugged.

‘I’ve known worse. Don’t think about it. You needed the bed more. I’ll put the heating on in the house today and get it aired for you. You can sleep in your own bed from tonight.’ He turned to face her, and found himself trapped again in the clear grey pools of her eyes.

‘I’m sorry about your grandfather,’ he apologised, dragging his eyes away from hers with difficulty. I didn’t realise you hadn’t got the letters. I suppose the post is a little primitive?’

Her mouth lifted in the beginnings of a smile. ‘Something like that. And the clinic is mobile, so that makes us even harder to find. We only got the Christmas cards last week!’

Sam’s shoulders sagged. ‘I’m sorry, I—I would never have told you like that.’

She lifted her hand. ‘Please, don’t worry. It really doesn’t matter. The end result would have been the same.’ She fiddled with the belt of his dressing-gown for a moment, then looked up. ‘Is his car still in the garage? I’d like to go——Is he buried——? Oh, hell!’

She fumbled in the pockets, and Sam thrust a handful of tissues into her hands and waited while she pulled herself together.

‘He was buried in the churchyard. If you can hang on until after surgery I’ll take you later, but first I have to go down to the village shop and get some food in before I can offer you breakfast.’

She nodded, and drained her tea. ‘Do you mind if I have a shower?’ she asked.

He glanced at his watch. ‘No, do it now. The water’s hot. I’ll go and sort out the heating in the house.’

He disappeared through the door on the landing, and Lydia stayed where she was for a moment, nursing the still-warm cup and trying to sort out her feelings.

He had been so foul to her last night—understandably, really, if he had thought that she had come back just to claim her inheritance. And yet today he was patient, kind, understanding … She could see now why Gramps had spoken of him in such warm words, almost as if he were the son her father had failed to be.

Which brought her to the next problem.

Sam came back into the room, and she voiced her thoughts almost unconsciously.

‘How long do you think it will take you to find another practice?’

CHAPTER TWO

As AN opening gambit, it was not an unqualified success.

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 stripper.

Three hours later she was standing at the kitchen sink cleaning up the steam stripper and wondering what she’d started. The sitting-room was now reduced to chaos, and as for Lydia, she was covered in peeling paint and strips of soggy wallpaper, her jeans were caked with paste, lumps of gooey paper were stuck to her knees and she looked a fright.

She was not, therefore, terribly pleased to see Sam darken the kitchen doorway.

‘What do you want?’ she snapped, shoving an escaping tendril of hair out of the way with the back of her paste-covered hands, and jutting her little chin out in an unconsciously endearing gesture.

‘I just wanted to apologise——’

‘Good. Fine. Accepted. Now please go, I’m busy.”

‘I brought you some food. I don’t suppose you have any.’

Her stomach growled in response, but she would rather have starved than admit it.

‘I’m going out later, thank you,’ she said stiffly.

‘Really?’ He dumped the heavy box down on the worktop and dusted off his hands. ‘Well, now you won’t need to.’

‘Since you’ve already bought the things, I suppose you may as well leave them. You must tell me what I owe you,’ she muttered ungraciously, and he gave a small, humourless smile.

‘The receipt’s in the top of the box. Don’t lose it—I can appreciate that you would hate to be beholden to me!’

‘Oh!’ She glared crossly at him, and he turned on his heel and left, his mouth twitching.

She tried to remind herself that her grandfather had been a good judge of character and that Sam must, really, be a decent person, but she failed miserably.

‘Everyone’s entitled to one mistake,’ she said aloud. ‘Sam Davenport was obviously yours, Gramps.’

She screwed the tap off with unnecessary vigour, and screamed as the fitting came away in her hand and a fountain of water shot up and splattered all over the ceiling.

‘Dear God, Lydia, what the hell are you up to now?’

Sam barged her out of the way, dived under the sink and rummaged among the pots and pans for the stopcock. Seconds later the fountain slowed to a steady well, and then stopped altogether.

He emerged, dripping, from under the sink. ‘Pretending it was my neck?’ he asked with a wry grin, and her sense of humour, never far away, bubbled up and over. Giggling weakly, she sagged back against the worktop and gave in to her mirth. Sam joined in with a low chuckle, propping his lean hip against the front of the fridge and thrusting his wet hair out of his eyes.

‘You’re drenched,’ she said weakly when she could speak, and he looked down at himself, and then at her.

‘So are you,’ he said softly. Then their eyes met, and the laughter died away as he moved closer and brushed a drop of water from her cheek with the tip of his finger. He traced its path down her cheek, and then with his finger he tipped up her chin and looked down into her eyes.

‘Thank you for rescuing me,’ Lydia murmured breathlessly, and watched in fascination as his head lowered towards hers.

‘You’re welcome,’ he breathed against her mouth, and then his lips touched hers, shifting slightly against them before settling gently but firmly in place. His hands came up to cup the back of her head, and with a sigh she relaxed against him, giving in to the waves of warmth that lapped around her.

But the sigh was her undoing, because he deepened the kiss, and the warmth turned to a raging heat that swept up from nowhere and threatened to engulf them.

His lips left hers and tracked in hot open-mouthed kisses down her throat, lapping the water from her skin and sending shivers down her spine. She gave a wordless little cry, and he brought his mouth back to hers, cradling her willing body against his and drinking deeply from her lips.

Then he lifted his head slowly, laying feather-light kisses on her eyelids, and, placing his hands on her shoulders, he eased her gently away from him.

‘I’m really very sorry,’ he said gruffly.

Lydia shook her head. She couldn’t for the life of her see why he needed to apologise for kissing her so tenderly and beautifully. ‘Don’t be sorry. It was—just one of those things. Anyway, I liked it——’

‘Not the kiss. The awful things I said to you, the way I spoke to you. I hurt you, and I’m sorry. I never meant to. Can we start again?’

She was having difficulty thinking of anything but the feel of his lips on hers, the urgent need of his body pressed so close against her own, and his thumbs were tracing circles on her shoulders, turning her bones to water. She dragged her mind into focus. Maybe all was not yet lost.

‘Does that mean you’ll consider finding another practice?’ she asked quietly.

His hands fell abruptly to his sides, and he stepped back sharply, his face twisted with disdain. ‘I might have known,’ he said bitterly. ‘Women always use sex as a pawn, one way or another.’

She was stunned, hurt beyond belief that he could think that of her, so she snapped, ‘I could just as easily accuse you of doing that!’

‘Why should I?’

‘Why should you?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Because we both want the practice, and you’re trying to persuade me to give in!’

He gave a tired, humourless little laugh. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ he asked wearily. ‘I already have the practice. And possession, as they say, is nine-tenths of the law. In fact, the way things stand, you don’t even have a tenth in your favour.’

Lydia watched open-mouthed as he turned on his heel and stalked out of the kitchen, then she snapped her jaws shut so hard that she nearly broke her teeth.

She mopped and blotted until her rage had subsided, then she sagged against the cupboards and closed her eyes.

Oh, Gramps,’ she whispered, ‘I can see why you were taken in. He’s very convincing, and so, so smooth! Just like a diamond—hard as rock, and when the light’s right you can see straight through him.’

She called a plumber, cleaned out the fridge and put away the food, and then wrote out a cheque for Sam, dropping it through the surgery letter-box.

As she turned away he opened the door and emerged.

Did you want me?’ he asked, and she felt a hot tide rise up her throat and flood her face.

Of course not,’ she said abruptly, and he paused for a second, and then laughed softly.

‘Funny, I was sure you did,’ he teased, and the flush deepened.

‘You flatter yourself,’ she muttered crossly, and turned away, but not before she saw his face crease into a smile.

‘Are you going to be in?’ he asked a second later, and she shrugged.

‘Maybe. Why?’

‘I’m going out on a call. Maggie Ryder’s in labour and may need me before I’m back, and I’m supposed to be covering for George Hastings as well. The answer-phone’s on, and it gives them the cell-phone number to contact, but it can be useful having someone here.’

To act as receptionist? Sorry, Dr Davenport, if you want a receptionist you’ll have to pay one. I’m afraid I have rather too much to do.’

She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving him tight-lipped on the drive.

‘Forget it,’ he called after her. ‘I thought perhaps I could appeal to your compassionate nature, but I was obviously wrong.’

She turned back to face him, hands on hips. ‘And what,’ she asked icily, ‘gives you the impression that I feel compassionate towards you?’

One eyebrow quirked mockingly at her. ‘Who said anything about me? I meant the patients. Why should you feel anything towards me?’

‘Apart from dislike? Search me!’

His lips twitched. ‘Later, if you don’t mind. I’m a bit busy at the moment.’

He ignored her outraged gasp and swung himself behind the wheel of his car, a new BMW.

‘I might have known he’d have a flash set of wheels,’ she grumbled to herself, and marched back to the house, head held high, back ramrod-straight.

He roared round behind her, and tooted the horn just as he pulled level with her, making her jump nearly out of her skin.

His laugh rippled back down the drive as he roared away, and it just served to fuel the temper that had been building all day.

“I’ll fix you!’ she muttered, and, going round to the back garden, she found the old wheelbarrow and filled it with bricks from the crumbling shed at the end.

Slowly, systematically, she constructed a barrier that divided her half of the in-and-out drive from his, so that it was no longer possible for him to drive across the front of the house. Then she found some whitewash and slopped it on the makeshift wall so that he would see it, and stood back to examine her efforts. A bit crooked, but it would serve its purpose.

‘Well, if it’s not young Lydia!’ she heard from behind her, and, turning, she recognised Mrs Pritchard from the village shop.

Oh! Hello, Mrs P. Just building a wall,’ she said lamely. Suddenly feeling rather foolish, she rubbed her hands down the sides of her jeans and attempted to explain that, since the surgery was no longer part of the house, it was sensible to separate it completely to avoid any problems over maintenance of the drive.

‘Seem a bit daft to me, dear. Never mind, I expect you young things know best, but I hope that nice Dr Davenport doesn’t mind.’

‘Hmm,’ she mumbled. She was actually hoping that he would mind very much indeed—in fact, she was counting on it!

She eventually excused herself on the grounds that the phone was ringing and, having gone in, despite her refusal to Sam, she felt obliged to answer it.

The caller was a young woman whom Lydia remembered from her childhood, who was going frantic because her baby wouldn’t stop crying.

‘Lydia, I don’t know what to do! He just won’t stop—it’s been going on for six hours! I must be doing something awfully wrong——’

‘How old is he?’ she asked, and established through careful questioning that the baby was four weeks old, had no history of colic, was apparently quite well, not suffering from constipation or diarrhoea, and had a normal temperature.

‘Where are you, Lucy?’ she asked, and when she found out that the woman was only three or four hundred yards down the road she suggested that Lucy put the baby in the pram and bring him up to the surgery. ‘Dr Davenport’s out at the moment, and I can’t leave the house because I’m waiting for the plumber, but if you like I can have a look at the baby just to make sure there’s nothing drastically wrong, and the break will probably do you good—me too. It’ll be nice to see you again. I’ll put the kettle on,’ she added, and it was only after she had hung up that she remembered she had no water.

Shrugging, she ran up to Sam’s flat with her kettle and filled it from his tap, then took it back to her kitchen through the communicating door in the hall and put it on to heat while she changed her clothes and dragged a comb through her hair.

Lucy arrived a short time later, with baby Michael still screaming lustily in his pram. After tracking down her grandfather’s medical bag Lydia examined Michael carefully, checking his ears and throat particularly for any sign of infection, and taking his temperature and listening to his chest.

‘He seems fine. Lucy, I think it’s one of two things. Either he’s eaten something which has disagreed with him, in which case he’ll probably get diarrhoea very shortly, or else he’s just having a paddy! Let’s see if we can distract him.’

Picking up the screaming child, she tucked him in the crook of her left arm and rocked him against her, crooning softly.

Almost immediately his eyes fell shut and he dropped off to sleep, much to Lucy’s evident relief. However, he woke screaming again as soon as Lydia tried to put him down, so she laughingly picked him up again and carried him through to the kitchen.

Tea?’ she asked over her shoulder, and made a pot one-handed while Lucy slumped down at the table and nodded.

‘Please. I feel exhausted! I had no idea babies were so tiring.’

Lydia smiled. ‘You’re at the worst stage. The euphoria has worn off, he’s not sleeping through the night yet, and the lack of unbroken sleep is just getting to you. It’s nothing to worry about. Provided you can get through it, you’ll be fine. Thank your lucky stars you aren’t out planting rice every day with him tied to your back!’

They chatted over tea, catching up on the years since they had last seen each other, and Michael slept through it all without a murmur.

‘You see, I told you it was just a paddy!’ Lydia joked. ‘I should think you were all wound up and communicating your tension to him. Babies arc usually very tough little things, you know. They’re awfully good at getting their own way—look at this! He’s been cuddled for nearly an hour, and he’s had a terrific time! You ought to buy a baby-sling and carry him next to you. That way you can get on, and he can be near you all the time. Where did you have him?’

Lucy pulled a face. ‘Hospital. Daniel insisted. I would have liked to have him at home, but perhaps it isn’t really sensible for the first one. What do you think?’

Lydia thought of the little Indian babies she had delivered in appallingly primitive conditions in some of the villages they had visited, and stifled a laugh. ‘If the facilities exist it would seem to make sense to use them,’ she said cautiously. God forbid that she should be seen to be giving Lucy medical advice!

‘What would you do?’ Lucy persisted.

‘Me?’ Lydia laughed. ‘It’s unlikely to affect me as I’m not about to have any children.’

‘But if you did?’ Lucy persisted.

‘I’d go for a home delivery—but hopefully I’d be married to a doctor!’ A sudden image of Sam sprang to mind, and she dismissed it hastily. ‘Anyway, I’m the wrong person to ask because I hate hospitals—that’s why I’m a GP!’

Just then the plumber arrived, and so Lucy left, with the now calm Michael sleeping peacefully in his pram.

After the tap was repaired the plumber departed, amid dire threats about the use of brute force and the unlikelihood of the system surviving another winter. Lydia really didn’t think she wanted to know.

The phone was quiet, there was no sign of Sam and so she decided to go for a walk through the fields down by the old gravel pits, to stretch her legs and get away from the house.

Her grief, still very fresh, was catching up with her and hour by hour was sinking further in. Always a bit of a loner, she suddenly felt the need to be miles away from everyone so that she could come to terms with all the sudden and drastic changes in her life. Regretting her petty gesture with the wall but lacking the energy to take it down, and unable to face another confrontation with Sam today, she dug out her old waxed cotton jacket and wellies from the boot-room and bundled herself up in them.

There was a lane that ran behind the house, and she followed it for half a mile before branching off across the fields towards the copse. Stark against the skyline there was an old wind-pump which had been used in times gone by to pump water from the bottom of the gravel pit, but it was long abandoned and the rusty old sails now creaked forbiddingly in the gusting winds.

Lydia snuggled further down in her coat and tried to ignore the shiver of apprehension that ran down her spine at the eerie noise. There were some children running around near the edge of the copse, and she could hear their shrieks as they played. She hoped they would have the good sense to be careful.

Then she noticed the pitch of their screams, and she started to run, feet slipping and sliding on the wet ground, and as she got nearer the children’s cries became more audible.

‘What’s happened?’ she called.

‘David’s fallen in the water!’ the nearest child screamed, and the shiver of apprehension turned into a full-scale chill of horror.

By the time she’d reached them her lungs were bursting and she could hardly stand, but somehow her legs dragged her on to the edge of the old workings.

Down in the pit, some thirty feet below her down a ragged, broken bank, was a pool formed by rainwater collecting in the bottom of the gravel pit, and floating face-down in the black water she could see the colourful figure of a small child.

She quickly dispatched the two oldest to run for help and call an ambulance, and scrambled headlong down the bank, examining the situation in escalating dismay.

There was only one way to get to him, and she did it before she had time to talk herself out of it. Ripping off her outer clothes, she plunged into the icy water and struck out for the child. The cold knocked all the breath from her lungs, and for a moment she thought she would go under, but then her chest started to work again and she dragged in some air and forced her frozen limbs to work.

Grabbing a handful of his anorak, she pulled the child back to the bank and hauled him up the edge, slipping and sliding as she went.

His skin was a bluish white, his lips almost purple, and there was no sign of breathing at all.

Oh, God, no!’ she muttered to herself, and just because she couldn’t give up without trying, and because there was always an outside chance that his sudden immersion had triggered the diving reflex, she forced her frozen limbs into action.

Tipping the child on to his front, she gently depressed his chest to squeeze water from his airways. There was very little, backing up her guess, and when she laid her ear against his chest, she could detect a faint heartbeat every few seconds.

‘Severe bradycardia, pulseless, no breathing apparent,’ she recited, and, flipping him on to his back, she gently tipped his head back and, covering his nose and mouth with her lips, she breathed carefully into his tiny lungs. After two breaths she crossed her hands over the bottom of his breastbone and pumped steadily fifteen times, then gave two more breaths and pumped again.

After a few minutes she heard scrambling behind her, but she was too busy counting to pay attention.

‘For heaven’s sake, woman, you’ll freeze to death!’ a man’s voice said, and Lydia became aware that she was still dressed only in her underwear, and the biting wind was chilling her body rapidly.

‘Press here, like this,’ she said, and while the man took over she dived into her clothes and then pushed him out of the way, continuing the massage.

‘She’s wasting her time. Anyone can see he’s dead—look at him!’ one of the other bystanders said in an awed voice, and Lydia shot him a black look.

‘Not yet, he isn’t. Not until I say so. Go and look out for the ambulance, please, so they don’t waste time trying to find us.’

She turned her attention back to the child, counting fifteen pumps, then two breaths, fifteen pumps, two breaths, until suddenly a pair of large warm hands closed over hers and a reassuring voice murmured, ‘Take over the top end. One to five.’

Lydia had never been so glad to see anyone in all her life.

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