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CHAPTER ONE

THE corridor was gloomy by reason of its being on the top floor of the oldest part of the hospital, and largely unused save by the staff of the pathological department and anyone needing to visit them. One such visitor was standing there now, just where the corridor turned at a sharp angle, staring with horror at the shattered glass dish at her feet. She had been carrying it, and its grisly contents, and, believing there to be no one to impede her progress, had been running…

The person she had run into eyed the horrid mess on the floor thoughtfully. She was a tall, splendidly built girl, with dark hair twisted into an elegant chignon, a pretty face and large brown eyes.

She said calmly, ‘You were running, Nurse Wells.’ It wasn’t an accusation, merely a statement. ‘I take it that this is—was the specimen from Mrs Dodds? Do go and tell Professor van Belfeld that you have had an accident with it.’

Nurse Wells was a very junior nurse, healthily in awe of her seniors. She whispered, ‘I daren’t, Sister. He—he frightens me. When I dropped the forceps last week on the ward he looked at me. I know he didn’t say anything but he-he just looked. Could I write him a note?’

Megan Rodner suppressed a smile. ‘Well, no, I think not, Nurse.’ She paused, looking at the woebegone face before her; any minute now and Nurse Wells was going to burst into a storm of tears. ‘Go back to the ward, and tell Staff Nurse to give you something to do where you can pull yourself together. I’ll see Professor van Belfeld and explain.’

She was rewarded with a relieved sniff and a watery smile. ‘Oh, Sister, you are a dear—I’ll work ever so hard…’

‘Good—and don’t run!’

Left alone, Megan stood for a mere moment staring down at the ruined result of several days’ treatment on Mrs Dodds, who hadn’t been co-operative and would be even less so now. The professor would be annoyed, hiding icy anger behind a calm face. Unlike Nurse Wells, Megan wasn’t afraid of him—she rather liked him, as far as one could like a person who made no effort to be more than coldly courteous.

She walked down a small dark passage leading off the corridor and opened the door at its end. The path. lab. was a complexity of several large rooms, all occupied by white-coated workers and a vast amount of equipment; she went past them all, exchanging hellos as she went, and tapped on a door in the last of the rooms.

The professor’s room was quiet after the hum of noise from the rest of the department. He was sitting at his desk, writing, a big man with wide shoulders and fair hair thickly sprinkled with grey. He said without looking up, ‘Yes?’

‘Sister Rodner from Queen’s Ward, sir. The specimen from Mrs Dodds—’

He interrupted her, ‘Ah, yes, leave it with Peters; I’ll need to see it myself.’ He added belatedly, ‘Thank you, Sister.’

‘I haven’t got it,’ said Megan baldly. ‘The dish was—that is, it’s smashed.’

He looked up then, his cold blue eyes searching her face. She studied his face as she waited for him to say something. He was a handsome man with a commanding nose and a mouth which could become thin at times. It was thin now. ‘Where is it?’ His voice was quiet.

‘In the corridor…’

He got up, towering over her. ‘Come with me, Sister, and we will take a look.’ He held the door and she went past him, back through the department and out into the corridor with him at her heels, and she stood silently while he crouched down to take a close look. He got to his feet and growled something she couldn’t understand—Dutch swear words, she reflected, and she could hardly blame him. ‘You dropped the dish, Sister?’ His voice, with its faint accent, was gently enquiring.

She looked him in the eye. ‘It fell, sir.’

‘Just so. And whom are you shielding behind your—er—person, Sister?’

When she didn’t answer, he said, ‘You are perhaps afraid to tell me?’

‘Good heavens, no,’ said Megan cheerfully, ‘I’m not in the least afraid of you, you know.’

He said nothing to that, only gave her a frigid stare. ‘Be good enough to repeat the treatment, Sister, and when it is completed kindly let me know and I will send one of the technicians to your ward to collect it.’

She smiled at him. ‘Very well, sir. I’m sorry about the accident; it’s kind of you not to be too annoyed.’

‘Annoyed? I am extremely angry,’ he told her. ‘Good day to you, Sister.’

Dismissed, she walked away and he watched her go, very neat in her dark blue uniform and the muslin trifle the sisters at Regent’s wore upon their heads. Only when she had reached the end of the corridor and was out of sight did he go back to his office.

Megan went back to her ward, spent a difficult fifteen minutes persuading Mrs Dodds that it was necessary to repeat the treatment once again, and then repaired to her office to drink a soothing cup of tea and wrestle with the off-duty book. She was joined presently by her senior staff nurse, Jenny Morgan.

‘Nurse Wells is in the linen cupboard, tidying. She’s still crying.’

‘Are there enough of us on to keep her there for a bit? The list will be starting soon—you’d better take the first case up. Nurse Craig can take the next one…’ She plotted out the afternoon’s work and Jenny poured second cups.

‘Was he furious?’ she wanted to know.

‘Yes, but very polite. He’ll send a technician when the next specimen’s ready.’

‘Oh, good. No one knows anything about him, do they? Perhaps he’s crossed in love.’ Jenny, who was for ever falling in and out of love with various housemen, sounded sympathetic.

Megan had opened the off-duty book again, and she said indifferently, ‘I dare say the man’s married with half a dozen children. He might be quite nice at home.’

Jenny went away and she concentrated on the off duty, but not for long. She was going out that evening, a rather special occasion, for she was to meet Oscar’s parents. She had been engaged to Oscar for six months now and this was the first time she was to meet his family. He was a medical registrar, considered to be an up-and-coming young man with a good future. He had singled her out a year or more ago and in due course he had proposed. She had had her twenty-eighth birthday a day or two before that and since he seemed devoted to her and she liked him very much, indeed was half in love with him, she had agreed to become engaged. She had had proposals before but somehow she had refused them all, aware that deep inside her was a special wish to meet a man who would sweep her off her feet and leave her in no doubt that life without him would be of no use at all, but in her sensible moments she knew that she expected too much out of life. Solid affection, a liking for the same things—those were the things which made a successful marriage. In due course, she supposed, she would become Mrs Oscar Fielding. During their engagement she had endeavoured to model herself on Oscar’s ideas of womanhood; he had hinted that she was a little too extravagant—what need had she to buy so many clothes when she spent so much of her time in uniform? And shoes—did she really need to buy expensive Italian shoes? He was always very nice about it and she had done her best to please him but just once or twice lately she had wondered if she was living up to his ideals. He never allowed her to pay her share when they went out together nor had he suggested that she should save for their future, with the consequence that she had a nice little nest-egg burning a hole in her pocket. She would, she decided, have to talk to him about it. It wasn’t as if she wasted her money—she bought good clothes; classical styles which didn’t date, but just lately she hadn’t bought anything at all, wishing to please him. Perhaps she would get the chance to talk to him that evening.

The theatre cases went up and came back, she applied herself to the running of the ward and at five o’clock handed over to Jenny.

‘Going out, Sister?’ asked Jenny, tidying away the report book.

‘Yes, with Oscar—I’m meeting his people.’

‘Have a lovely evening,’ her right hand wished her. ‘It’s take-in tomorrow. I expect you’ll go somewhere nice.’

She spoke sincerely. She liked Sister Rodner but she thought Oscar was a stuffed shirt. Not nearly good enough for the beautiful creature preparing to leave the office.

In her room, Megan inspected her wardrobe. Something suitable, but what was suitable for meeting one’s future in-laws? She decided upon a crêpe-de-Chine dress in a pleasing shade of azure blue, long-sleeved and high-necked, and covered it with a long loose coat in a darker blue. The coat was a very fine wool and had cost a lot of money justified by its elegance. She chose the plainest of her Italian shoes, found a handbag and gloves and went down to the hospital entrance.

He was waiting for her; he was also in deep conversation with Professor van Belfeld, who saw her first but gave no sign of having done so. Megan wasn’t a girl to dither; she walked across to them and said, ‘Good evening, sir’ and then, ‘Good evening, Oscar.’

The professor rumbled a good evening and Oscar said self-consciously, ‘Oh, hello, Megan. Of course you know the professor?’

‘Indeed, yes.’ She gave him a smiling nod.

‘Don’t let me keep you,’ said the professor. He sounded quite fatherly. ‘I wish you a very pleasant evening.’

Oscar beamed at him. ‘Oh, I’m sure of that, sir. Megan is to meet my parents for the first time.’

‘Ah—delightful, I’m sure.’ His chilly gaze took in the diamond ring on her finger, his face expressionless.

He watched them get into Oscar’s elderly car before turning away and going to the wards.

Oscar’s parents had come to London from their home in Essex. It was their habit to spend a few days each year at a modest hotel, attend a concert, see a suitable play and see as much of their son as possible. Megan, who had received a polite letter from his mother when they had got engaged, was feeling nervous. Supposing his mother and father didn’t like her; supposing she didn’t like them? She voiced her uncertainty to Oscar who laughed. ‘Of course you’ll like each other,’ he told her. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t.’

Which was true enough. All the same, when they got to the hotel and joined the Fieldings in the half-empty bar she knew at once that she and Oscar’s mother disliked each other at first glance. Not that there was any sign of this; they kissed the air beside each other’s cheeks, said how glad they were to meet at last and made polite remarks about the splendid weather for March. There was a short respite while she was introduced to Oscar’s father, a small man with a wispy moustache and an air of apology; she liked him but they had little chance to talk for Oscar seated them at a small table, ordered drinks and settled down to talk to his father.

Megan sipped the gin and tonic which she hadn’t asked for and which she didn’t like and engaged her future mother-in-law in small talk. Mrs Fielding brushed aside the chat and embarked on a cross-examination of Megan’s life, her family, where had she gone to school, just how old she was…and it was to be hoped that she was a home-loving girl. ‘These career-minded young women,’ observed Mrs Fielding severely, ‘have no right to go to work when they have a family and a husband to look after.’

Megan looked at her companion. She was short and stout with a sharp nose and beady eyes, dressed in what Megan could only describe as economical clothes and with a fearsome hair-do. Oscar had told her that they were in comfortable circumstances and she had no reason to doubt him; perhaps they were just careful of their money… It seemed as though that was the case, for when they sat down to dinner Mrs Fielding made it clear that they would all have the set menu. ‘I’m sure we shall enjoy it,’ she said in a voice daring anyone to say otherwise, ‘and a glass of wine is sufficient for us.’

It surprised her that Oscar did not seem to mind his mother’s managing ways; he affably agreed to everything she suggested and when she observed presently that when they married they could have a quantity of furniture stored in the attics he thought it a splendid idea.

‘What kind of furniture?’ asked Megan.

‘Oh, tables and chairs and a very large sideboard and several carpets which I inherited from my parents. There are several things from Mr Fielding’s father too, I believe. Some quite nice chests of drawers, and, if I remember rightly, a pretty what-not.’

Megan, uncertain as to what a what-not might be, decided to say nothing. Later she and Oscar would have a talk. When—a small voice added if—they married, she wanted, like every other young woman, to choose her own home. Where was that home going to be, anyway? Somehow she and Oscar hadn’t got around to talking about that.

Later as they drove back to Regent’s she asked. ‘Oscar, what do you plan to do when you’ve finished at Regent’s?’

‘Get a senior post—I’d like to stay here but there might not be an opening. Plenty of other hospitals in London, though.’

‘You want to stay here, in London, for always?’

‘Possibly. I’ll have to see what turns up.’

‘What about me?’

‘Well, if I can get a flat with the job I should think the best thing would be that; if not it would be best for you to live with Mother and Father. I could come home for weekends and free days—it’s only a couple of hours in the car.’

‘You don’t mean that, do you?’

‘Mean it? Of course I do. What else is there to do? It would be a waste of money to pay for a flat or even rooms when you can live at home for the price of your keep.’ He laughed and patted her knee. ‘If I thought you…but you’re such a sensible girl…’

She glanced at him; he had a nice face, open and good-natured. In a few years’ time he would be a thoroughly reliable physician with a sound practice. He was fond of her too, although she sometimes thought that his work was his real love and he wasn’t a man to sweep her off her feet. Sometimes she would have liked to have been swept…

He walked with her to the entrance to the nurses’ home when they reached Regent’s and stood for a moment, mulling over their evening.

‘Take-in tomorrow,’ said Megan.

‘Shan’t see much of you, though. When’s your next weekend? I might be able to get Sunday off.’

‘Could you? We could go home—you haven’t met Mother and Father or the family yet. I’m free the weekend after next.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He kissed her without wasting much time over it. ‘Sleep well, Megan. We might manage an hour or two during the week.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

She went to her room and presently, in bed, went over the evening. It hadn’t been a huge success but she supposed that with time she and Oscar’s mother might get to like each other. He should, she thought, sleepily, have fallen in love with a shy, quiet girl, content to take second place to his work and be suitably meek with his mother. She fell asleep trying to think of a way to turn herself into such a girl.

She discarded the idea the next morning. It was no good being meek and shy in her job; meekness would get her nowhere with the laundry superintendent who always argued about the excessive bedlinen Megan needed for her ward, nor would it help with the pharmacy, presided over by a bad-tempered man who queried every request and then said that he hadn’t got it. She fought her way through a busy morning and went to her midday dinner with a sigh of relief, but as she swallowed the first mouthful of shepherd’s pie she was recalled to the ward. Two street accidents; Eva Chambers, the senior casualty sister, gave her the details. ‘You’ll have your work cut out. I hope you have plenty of staff on duty.’

Head injuries, both of them, and so restless that Megan had to deplete her staff to special the two women. Mr Bright, one of the consultant surgeons, gave it his opinion that they needed to go to Theatre at once. ‘Get them cross-matched, Sister,’ he ordered, ‘and checked for AIDS. Tell the path. lab. to send someone capable of dealing with them if they get too restless; they’re both well-built women and there’s a great deal of cerebral irritation.’

The path. lab. responded smartly. Megan, sailing down the ward to give a helping hand in answer to urgent sounds coming from behind the curtains, was overtaken by a soft-footed Professor van Belfeld. He said mildly, ‘I understand that there is a certain amount of cerebral irritation—I thought it might be best if I came myself.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Megan. ‘They’re both a bit of a handful—we’ve got cot sides up, of course, but they will climb over…’

The professor had certainly been the right person to deal with the situation; he was gentle but he was also possessed of a strength which made child’s play of restraining the unconscious women. Megan, left to wrestle with arms and legs flying in all directions, watched him go and wished that he could have stayed.

Both women went to ICU after Theatre and the ward settled down to its normal routine; all the same it had been a busy day and she was glad to go off duty at last. Supper, a pot of tea, a hot bath and bed, she thought contentedly, going through the hospital; several long corridors, two staircases and the entrance hall to cross to reach the canteen in the basement. She had reached the hall when she saw the professor ahead of her. He was walking unhurriedly towards the doors. Going home, she supposed, and fell to wondering where home was. Why was he so late? Surely he didn’t need to put in a twelve-hour day?

He turned round and saw her as she drew level with the entrance. ‘A busy day, Sister Rodner,’ he observed. ‘Goodnight.’

She wished him goodnight too and as he went through the doors paused to watch him cross the forecourt and get into his car—a grey Rolls-Royce—and drive away. Just for a moment she found herself wishing that she could go with him and see where he lived…

Take-in went from Wednesday until Tuesday midnight and was as busy as one might expect. Regent’s was north of the river, its mid-Victorian bulk spread in the middle of streets packed with small houses, derelict buildings and small factories. There was always something, observed Eva Chambers wearily, at the end of a particularly busy day; if someone didn’t damage themselves with factory machinery, they got run over by a car or stabbed by a member of a rival gang of youths. The weekend was always the worst; Megan, gloomily surveying her bulging ward, thanked heaven that Wednesday was in sight.

She had seen Oscar only once or twice and then only for a brief hour snatched in a grubby little café across the street from the hospital, but she went out in her off duty however tired she was. There was nowhere much to go, but a brisk walk made a nice change and the weather was kind; it was mild for the end of March and here and there was a gallant little tree or privet hedge in a rare front garden, and there were green shoots. Next week, she thought happily, she and Oscar would go home together, and the week after that she would have her own small flat; Theatre Sister was getting married and no longer needed the semi-basement she had lived in for some years, and Megan had jumped at the chance of getting it. Oscar hadn’t liked the idea but, as she pointed out, it would be marvellous to have somewhere to go; she could cook supper and they could talk, something for which they seldom had time.

The ward settled back into its usual routine—admissions for operations, discharges for those who had recovered, dressings, treatment, serving meals, arranging the off-duty rota to please the nurses, continuing her running fight with the laundry; after four years she had become adept at running a ward.

Oscar wasn’t free until Sunday and although she grudged missing a day at home it gave her the chance to go along to the flat and make her final arrangements for moving in. She had already met the landlord, an elderly bewhiskered cockney who occupied the ground-floor flat himself and let the top flat to a severe lady whose staid manner and ladylike ways added, he considered, to the tone of his house, something he was anxious to maintain in the rather shabby street.

Shabby or not, it was handy for the hospital, and Megan was looking forward to having a place of her own even if it was a down-at-heel semi-basement. She spent most of her Saturday going through its contents with Theatre Sister, who was packing up ready to leave, and she agreed to take over most of the simple furniture which was there and adopt the stray cat that went with the flat. It would be nice to have company in the evenings and he seemed an amiable beast. She went back to the hospital in the early evening, eager to make her move, noting with satisfaction that it took her exactly five minutes to get there. Her head full of pleasant plans about new curtains, a coat of paint on the depressing little front door, she failed to see Professor van Belfeld driving out of the forecourt as she went in.

She and Oscar left early the next morning. Her home in Buckinghamshire was in a small village north of the country town of Thame. Her father was senior partner in a firm of solicitors and had lived most of his life at Little Swanley, driving to and from his offices in Thame and Aylesbury. She had been born there, as had her younger sister and much younger brother, and although she enjoyed her job she was essentially a country girl. She had a small car and spent her free weekends and holidays at home, and she had hoped—indeed, half expected—that Oscar would get a partnership in a country practice; his determination to stay in London had shaken her a little. Sitting beside him as he drove out of London, she hoped that a day spent at her home would cause him to change his mind.

Little Swanley was a little over sixty miles’ drive from Regent’s and once they were out of the suburbs Oscar took the A41, and, when they reached Aylesbury, turned on to the Thame road before taking the narrow road leading to Little Swanley.

‘It would have been quicker if we had taken the M40,’ he pointed out as he slowed to let a farm cart pass.

‘Yes, I know, but this is so much prettier—I don’t like motorways, but we’ll go back that way if you like.’

She felt a twinge of disappointment in his lack of interest in the countryside; after the drab streets round the hospital, the fields and hedges were green, there were primroses by the side of the road and the trees were showing their new leaves. Spring had come early.

Another even narrower road led downhill into the village. Megan, seeing the church tower beyond it, the gables of the manor house and the red tiles of the little cluster of houses around the market cross, felt a thrill of happiness. ‘Go through the village,’ she told Oscar. ‘Ours is the first house on the left—there’s a white gate…’

The gate was seldom closed. Oscar drove up the short drive and stopped before the open door of her home, white-walled and timber-framed with shutters at its windows, a roomy seventeenth-century house surrounded by trees with a lawn before it and flowerbeds packed with daffodils.

She turned a beaming face to Oscar. ‘Home!’ she cried. ‘Come on in, Mother will be waiting.’

Her mother was already at the door, a still pretty woman almost as tall as her daughter. ‘Darling, here you are at last, and you’ve brought Oscar with you.’ She embraced Megan and shook hands with him. ‘We’ve heard so much about you that we feel as though we know you already.’ She opened the door wider. ‘Come and meet my husband.’

Mr Rodner came into the hall then, the Sunday papers under one arm, spectacles on his nose, a good deal older than his wife, with a thick head of grey hair and a pleasant scholarly face. Megan hugged him before introducing Oscar. ‘At last we’ve managed to get here together. Are the others home?’

‘Church,’ said her mother. ‘They’ll be here in half an hour or so; there’s just time for us to have a cup of coffee and a chat before they get back.’

Melanie and Colin came in presently. Melanie was quite unlike her mother and sister; she was small and slim with golden hair and big blue eyes and Oscar couldn’t take his eyes off her. Megan beamed on them both, delighted that they were instant friends, for Melanie was shy and gentle and tended to shelter behind her sister’s Junoesque proportions. She left them talking happily and went into the garden to look at Colin’s rabbits, lending a sympathetic ear to his schoolboy grumbles, then she went to help her mother put lunch on the table.

Oscar, she saw with happy relief, had made himself at home, and her parents liked him. She had thought they might have taken a walk after lunch and discussed their future but he was so obviously happy in their company that she gave up the idea and left him with her father, Colin and Melanie and she went into the kitchen to gossip with her mother while they cleared away the dishes and put things ready for tea.

‘I like your young man,’ said her mother, polishing her best glasses. ‘He seems very sensible and steady. He’ll make a good husband, darling.’

‘Yes.’ Megan hesitated. ‘Only I don’t see much chance of us marrying for a while—for a long while. He’s rather keen on settling in London and I would have liked him to have found a country practice. I like my work, Mother, but I don’t like London, at least not the part where we work.’

‘Perhaps you can change his mind for him,’ suggested Mrs Rodner comfortably. ‘He doesn’t want to specialise, does he?’

‘No, but he’s keen to get as many qualifications as he can and that means hospital posts for some time.’

‘Did you like his parents, darling?’

Megan put down the last of the knives. ‘Well, his father is quite nice—not a bit like Father, though. I tried hard to like his mother but she doesn’t like me; she says she has no patience with career-minded girls.’

‘You won’t work once you are married, will you?’

‘No. Oscar wouldn’t like that. He thought it would be a good idea if he were to get a senior registrar’s post at one of the big teaching hospitals and I were to live with his parents…’

‘That won’t work,’ said Mrs Rodner with some heat. ‘What would you do all day? And it wouldn’t be a home of your own. Besides, after running a ward for a year or two you won’t settle down easily to playing second fiddle to Oscar’s mother, especially if you don’t like her.’

‘What shall I do?’ asked Megan. ‘It’s a problem, isn’t it?’

‘Wait and see, darling. Very hard to do, I know, but it’s the only way.’

Oscar drove her back to Regent’s after supper, waiting patiently while she hugged and kissed her family in turn, cuddled the elderly Labrador, Janus, made a last inspection of the family cat, Candy, and her various kittens, and picked a bunch of daffodils to cheer up her room. He was seldom put out, she thought contentedly as she got into the car at last.

‘Well,’ she asked him as they drove away, ‘did you like my family?’

‘Very much. Your brother is pretty sharp, isn’t he? Does well at school, I dare say.’

‘Yes, and a good thing, for Father wants him to go into the firm later on.’

‘Your sister is—she’s charming, like a shy angel—you’re not a bit alike,’ and when Megan laughed at that he said, ‘That sounds all wrong but you know what I mean. Has she got a job?’

‘No, she helps Mother at home, but she’s a marvellous needlewoman and she paints and draws and makes her own gloves—that kind of thing. She’s a good cook, too.’

‘Those scones at tea were delicious,’ said Oscar warmly. ‘I like to think of her in the kitchen…’

Megan, faintly puzzled by this remark, refrained from telling him that she had knocked up a batch of scones while he had been talking to Melanie in the drawing-room. It was natural enough, she supposed, that he would think that being a ward sister precluded a knowledge of the art of cooking.

At the hospital they parted in the entrance hall.

‘It was a delightful day,’ said Oscar warmly. ‘I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for a long time.’

A remark which caused Megan to feel vaguely put out. All the same she said in her matter-of-fact way, ‘Good, we must do it again. Don’t forget I’m moving into my flat this week. If you’re free on Thursday evening, you can come for supper.’

He kissed her cheek, since there was no one there to see. ‘That’s a date. What will it be? Baked beans on toast and instant coffee?’

She smiled. ‘Very likely. You’d better bring a bottle of beer to help it out. Goodnight, Oscar.’

Before she went to sleep she had planned a supper menu which would put all thoughts of baked beans out of his head.

Theatre Sister left on Monday and on Tuesday evening Megan went round to the flat. She had already met the landlord and someone had been in to give the flat a good clean; it only remained for her to set the place to rights and since she had the evening before her she went back to the hospital, packed a case with most of her clothes, filled a plastic bag with books and went off once more. She had gone through the entrance door when the case was taken from her hand.

‘Allow me,’ said Professor van Belfeld. ‘The car’s over here…’

Megan stopped to look at him. ‘Car?’ she asked stupidly. ‘But I’m only going—’

He interrupted her. ‘To your new flat, no doubt. I’ll drop you off as I go.’

‘Well, that’s very kind,’ began Megan, ‘but really there’s no need.’

He didn’t answer, but put a large hand under her elbow, took the bag of books away from her and steered her to his car. It was extremely comfortable sitting there beside him, only she didn’t have time to enjoy it to the full; the journey took less than a minute.

Outside the shabby house he got out to open her door, took the key from her and unlocked the door of the flat, switching on the lights and then going back for her case and the books. The place looked bare and unlived-in but it was clean and needed only a few cushions, some flowers and photos and the small gas fire lighted. She was standing in the tiny lobby thanking the professor when the cat sped past them.

‘Yours?’ asked the professor.

‘Well, yes. Theatre Sister said that she’d been feeding him. I’ll get some milk, he must be hungry.’

A small group of children had collected round the car, staring in, and the professor turned round to look at them, picked out the biggest boy and beckoned him over. ‘Go to the shop at the end of the street; I fancy it is still open. Buy two tins of cat food and some milk—any kind of milk.’ He gave the lad some money. ‘Fifty pence if you’re quick about it.’

‘Really,’ protested Megan, ‘there was no need…’

‘The beast is hungry.’ He stated the fact in his quiet voice, putting an end to further argument. ‘You do not mean to stay here tonight?’

‘No. I’m moving in tomorrow. I’ve a day off on Thursday and I’m going to cook a splendid supper. Oscar’s coming.’ She added, ‘Dr Fielding.’

‘Yes. I do know him,’ said the Professor drily. He sounded impatient too and she was glad when the boy came racing back with the cat food and the milk. ‘Give them to the lady,’ advised the professor, and put his hand in his pocket again. ‘Get yourself and your friends some chips.’

The boy took a delighted look at the money. ‘Yer a bit of all right!’ he shouted cheerfully as he and his friends scattered down the street…

Which gave Megan the chance to thank her companion all over again for his help, wish him goodnight and watch him drive away before going into her new home to feed the cat and unpack her case.

The cat, nicely full, sat and watched her. He was too thin and uncared for but she thought that with a little pampering he would turn into a splendid animal. ‘You haven’t a name,’ she observed, ‘and since you’re not a stray but belong here you must have a name. I wonder where you come from and how long you have been wandering around Meredith Street?’

She stroked his grubby head. ‘Of course, that’s your name—Meredith.’

There was a miserable little yard at the back of the flat where the tenants kept their dustbins and the patch of grass struggled to keep green. She opened the door in the tiny kitchen and he went outside but presently crept in again. She locked the door again, opened the small window beside it so that he could get in and out if he wished, put food down for him and wished him goodnight. She wasn’t very happy about the window but she wasn’t going to turn him out so late in the evening and the brick wall round the yard was very high.

The ward was busy the next day and take-in had started again. She had felt guilty at taking her day off during their busy week but it was Jenny’s weekend and she would probably be on duty for very long hours then. She was tired by the evening but she was free until Friday morning. She took the rest of her things to the flat, welcomed by Meredith, and then made up the bed, which pretended to be a divan during the day, cooked herself supper, fed the cat and sat down by the fire to make a list of the things she would need for the supper she had planned for the next day. That done, she turned the divan back into a bed again, had a shower in the cupboard-like apartment squeezed in between the kitchen and the back yard, and, well content, slept soundly with the cat Meredith, who had climbed cautiously on to the end of the bed.

Megan opened an eye as he wriggled into the blankets. ‘You need a good wash and brush-up,’ she muttered, and then slept again.