Читать книгу Nothing Left to Give - Caroline Anderson - Страница 4

THE surgery was modern, purpose-built and a huge improvement on her last place of work. Instead of a tatty, litter-strewn pavement and a door straight off the street, the path from the car park to the entrance led through a landscaped garden filled with carefully tended roses, and the air was heavy with their scent.

In the distance Beth could hear farm machinery—haymaking? Probably not; it was the middle of September. Harvesting, then? She didn’t even know that much about the countryside, and yet here she was, in Barnham Market in Suffolk, about to be interviewed for a part-time temporary job that she wasn’t even sure she wanted.

She stifled a disbelieving laugh. She didn’t really know what she was doing there at all—except that she had no job now, and this would at least give her the chance to find out if she liked living in the country, by no means a foregone conclusion since she had never done it before.

In fact her total contact with the country consisted of a few picnics in the company of a load of townies who knew no more about it than she did!

She sighed and locked the car. Oh, well, she was here now; she might as well have the interview.

The interior of the practice was light, airy and filled with plants, a far cry from the last place with its dreary rooms and scuffed lino floors. Here, rich blue-grey carpet tiles covered the floor in the reception area, and the chairs looked comfortable, grouped around a big table stacked neatly with magazines from Country Living to Farmer’s Weekly. There were two women sitting in the waiting-room, both obviously pregnant, and a toddler under a table chattering happily to a big yellow teapot. There was probably an ante-natal clinic going on.

She went up to the glass hatch into the reception office and smiled at the pretty middle-aged receptionist. ‘Hello, I’m Beth Turner—I’ve got an interview at three with Dr Pendragon.’

Oh, yes—take a seat, would you? Dr Pendragon will be back in a minute—he’s just had to go out on a call. He shouldn’t be long. The nurse’ll be free soon.’

She went obediently and sat down, among the pregnant women and the scattered toys, and pondered her fate.

Could be worse, she thought as she eyed the child. London had been, after all. Nothing, but nothing could be worse than that—the incessant traffic, the noise, the smell—really, she thought, you’d imagine you’d get used to it after all these years, but no. Not her, at any rate. She still loathed the noises, and as for the traffic fumes ——

‘Read.’

She blinked. The toddler pushed the book into her hand, climbed on to her lap and waited expectantly, his grubby cherub’s face turned up to hers. A familiar pang shot through her, but she ruthlessly ignored it.

‘No, darling—–’

She turned to the mother. ‘It’s all right—really. I don’t mind.’

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded, and the little boy pushed the book at her again. ‘Read!’

‘Say please.’

‘Peese.’

She dredged up a smile and opened the book. ‘Once upon a time, there was a little boy called Thomas —’

Me Thomas.’

She looked at him. ‘Are you? Isn’t that funny, both of you called Thomas!’

He plopped his thumb in his mouth and nodded, snuggling back down against her, and she turned back to the text again. She was barely started when a nurse appeared at her elbow.

‘Miss Turner? I’m Julie Rudd, the practice nurse. Would you like to come through to my room and we can have a chat?’

Beth slid the reluctant Thomas to the floor, handed him the book and followed her through the big double doors into the corridor outside the surgeries. ‘Sorry Dr Pendragon’s still out—he’s usually very reliable, but things don’t always go according to plan.’

Beth nearly laughed. If things had gone according to plan, she wouldn’t be here now. She smiled her understanding.

‘Cup of tea?’

‘Thank you, that would be lovely.’

‘We may as well go in Gideon’s office—he’ll be back any time now, I expect. Never mind, perhaps we can get started without him. Here, take a seat for a second, I’ve put the kettle on.’

While she waited for Julie to return, Beth looked round. You could tell a lot about a man from his office, she’d discovered, and Gideon Pendragon was no exception. For one thing he didn’t try and hide his family, she thought with a little twist of almost-forgotten pain. There were pictures on the desk—a boy in his late teens, dark, strikingly good-looking; a girl of about twelve, with the same fine dark looks and superb bone-structure; and a little girl, only three or so, 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? I thought it was the vicarage.’

‘It was—until about twenty years ago. The present incumbent lives over there, much more economically!’

He pointed to a very pleasant modern house, much more modest than the sprawling Georgian building Beth had admired. She looked back at Gideon’s house, large and imposing. It suited him.

He turned in through a pair of tall gates and paused by a big brick building, itself larger than the present vicarage. Huge white-painted doors were set in the lower half, and the upper storey had tall arched windows set in the gables and dormers along the roofline. There you are—that’s the coach house. We use the bottom as a garage. When the kids were younger they used to play in the flat, but they’ve outgrown that sort of thing now.’

He sounded regretful, as if their childhood had been a thing of delight for him, and she felt herself warming to him even more. What a lovely, solid, dependable family man he was—such a contrast to the fickle and faithless Matthew.

She dragged her mind back to her surroundings, refusing to waste her mental energy on such a worthless topic.

He was opening a door at the side of the coach house, and she followed him in. There was a hall which reached the full height, and above she could see the old beams stretching across the vaulted ceiling. A black cast-iron spiral staircase led upwards, its lacy treads ringing under her feet as she ran lightly up to the top.

It was wonderful—huge, light and airy, the arched windows at each end looking out over the garden on one side and fields on the other. The crop hadn’t yet been harvested and the tall stalks whispered as the light breeze flowed over them. Nearer to hand she could hear the rustling of the leaves on the trees which edged the garden, and in one of the trees a bird sang, the notes pure and clear. Beth closed her eyes, speechless.

‘I know the furniture’s a bit old-fashioned, but it’s solid and everything’s quite clean. If you wanted we could get something else, I suppose—the mattress is new.’

She opened her eyes and looked around, taking in the contents of the room instead of just its atmosphere.

The walls were white, the carpet a soft, faded brick colour, and everything else blended—the warm old pine of the table and chairs, the heavily carved bed-ends, the natural oak of the beams that spanned the ceiling, and on the comfy old sofa a faded chintz cover in soft peaches and greens. At the far end was a small run of handbuilt pine units housing a little oven, a fridge and a sink unit, and on the other side a door led presumably to the bathroom.

She turned to him, a silly smile lurking on her face. ‘It’s perfect,’ she told him, ‘absolutely perfect. I can’t believe my luck.’

He smiled then, the weary eyes warming, and Beth felt somthing quiver deep inside her.

‘I’m glad you like it,’ he said softly, and she was suddenly aware of him, of his size, his nearness in the room that was suddenly far, far too small.

She turned away, flustered. ‘It’s very homely—your wife must have quite a gift,’ she said, deliberately reminding herself that he was married.

The silence was deafening, and something about its quality made her turn and look searchingly at him.

The weariness was back, and with it a bone-deep sadness.

‘My wife’s dead, Miss Turner. She’s been dead for four years.’

Sophie was refusing to co-operate in the way only a four-year-old could. Gideon hung on to his patience, determined to win the battle, if not the war.

In the end she was bathed and into bed, and Claire had finished her Latin homework and was wrestling with biology. Will was in his room, Dire Straits tearing hell out of the walls and making the windows rattle. He opened the door.

‘William!’ he yelled.

The music was cut drastically.

‘Hi, Dad.’

‘Just going over to the coach house for a minute—the nurse will be here soon and I want to make sure everything’s ready. Watch the girls for me, can you?’

Will did the thumbs-up, and Gideon shut the door on the awful noise and headed for the relative sanctuary of the coach house.

To be honest, he was still trying to work out why he had let her have it. It was his retreat, the oasis of tranquillity he escaped to whenever things got too much and he needed time out from the pressing reality of life as a single parent.

He closed the door behind him and sighed, letting the absolute peace and stillness soak into him.

He must be mad to give it away.

He climbed the stairs and made his way over to the kitchen area, checking that his housekeeper had put a supply of fresh food in the fridge as he had requested, and that the bed was made up and aired and the bathroom in readiness.

On impulse he went back down and picked some roses from beside the house and took them in, standing them in a glass for want of a vase. They were hardly arranged—that sort of thing wasn’t his forte, to say the least, but he wanted to make the gesture—perhaps of atonement?

He had been rather abrupt, but he really hadn’t wanted to get into a discussion of Denise’s death and the events surrounding it.

He set the roses down on the table and dropped into the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him and dropping his head back with a sigh.

Damn, she was pretty.

Soft and warm, like sunshine on a spring morning.

He snorted. Poetry now.

He was conscious of an ache, deep in his chest, and another tightness further down, an awareness, a need that had lain dormant for years.

No, he told himself. She was too sweet, too kind, too innocent to use for the slaking of his thirst.

Hell, she wouldn’t even know the rules.

A car scrunched gravel on the drive, and he went down and opened the door.

She was climbing out of the car and dragging a heavy case behind her. Chivalry bade him take it from her.

‘Anything else?’

Her sweet fragrance drifted against his skin, and the ache intensified.

‘No, that’s all for now. I’ll go back at the weekend.’

He turned without speaking and went back inside, carrying the heavy case ahead of him up the steps.

He set it beside the bed and dusted off his hands.

Oh, roses—how thoughtful,’ she said softly, and he felt colour brush his neck.

‘I asked my housekeeper to get the room ready for you,’ he told her. The romantic little gesture seemed suddenly very foolish, and yet he was glad it had given her pleasure.

The huge room suddenly seemed suffocatingly small.

‘Right, I’ll leave you to get settled in. If there’s anything you need, just come over and shout.’

She turned towards him, her beautiful blue eyes softened by the smile, and his fingers ached to free her hair from the ponytail and spread it over her shoulders. He could almost feel the silky strands sliding through his fingers. It would be like golden rain, fanned over his pillow, cascading across his chest as she raised herself to look down on him, a teasing smile on her lips ——

He yanked himself up short. No, Pendragon. Not this one.

He bade her goodnight and turned, running quickly down the stairs and out into the blessed darkness of the night.

Gideon—Beth found it impossible to think of him as Dr Pendragon—tracked her down the following morning at the surgery.

‘All right?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Fine, thanks. I think I can find everything I’ll need. I’m helping Julie get rid of the backlog and then I’ll start my proper routine from Monday.’

‘Good. Make sure you put in a claim for the extra hours. Oh, by the way, talking about extra hours, do you feel happy about taking over the Stop Smoking clinic? I forgot to mention it at your interview. We run it when necessary, and we had a new group scheduled to start on Monday evening.’

She shook her head. ‘No problem. I’ve run one before. Do you do much with it?’

Oh, yes, it’s a tandem effort. We’ve found it’s very cost-effective because the smokers take up so much of our time and resources, especially in the winter months. It’s just that I’ve got a man coming to see me this morning who’s been referred for bypass surgery and he’s a heavy smoker—he needs to give up, and the surgeon is being less than hopeful about his chances if he doesn’t, so I thought I’d talk him into the clinic.’

‘Good idea.’

‘Sure you don’t mind? I’m sorry I didn’t mention it yesterday.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I think I’m going to find the time hangs on my hands anyway, I’m used to being busy.’

For a moment she thought he was going to say something else, but then he nodded and turned briskly away.

Beth watched him go, the long, lazy stride eating up the ground, the supple movements of his shoulders, the swing of his arms, his movements all graceful and coordinated like a natural athlete.

She had heard gravel scrunch underfoot this morning outside the coach house and had watched as he jogged down the lane past the church and out into the square.

Half an hour later she had heard the scrunch of returning footsteps, and had forced herself to ignore them and not look, however tempted she might be by the long, sleek limbs spangled with dark hair, the breadth of those powerful shoulders over neat, narrow hips and the driving pistons of his legs. One look was enough. After all, she had her sanity to consider, and tangling with all that raw masculine energy wasn’t conducive to mental health.

She busied herself in her room, doing inoculations and well-person checks, dishing out leaflets on breast and testicle self-examination, eating for health and avoiding heart disease.

One elderly lady, Mabel Robinson, came to her for a new dressing on her leg ulcer. Plopping down into the chair with a wheeze, she smiled up at Beth.

‘Hello, dear. Just give me a second and I’ll slip my stocking off for you.’

Beth returned the smile and knelt at her feet. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it. You’ve got to have a dressing changed, is that right?’

‘Yes—perishing leg ulcer. I don’t know, the blessed thing doesn’t seem to want to get better.’

‘Let’s have a look shall we?’ Beth gently rolled the stocking down and slipped it off Mrs Robinson’s foot, then after washing her hands she eased the hydrocolloid dressing away from the wound. ‘Oh, yes, I see what you mean. It’s obviously being a bit naughty, isn’t it? Well, let’s give it a wash and I’ll ask Dr Pendragon to have a look at it.’

She cleaned the wound gently with saline, then rang through to Gideon’s office and asked him to drop in.

He stuck his head round the door a moment later and shot Mrs Robinson a cheeky grin.

‘Hello, Mabel—how’re you doing?’

‘Oh, you know, Doctor—up and down.’

He crouched on the floor beside Beth and bent over the ulcer, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

‘Well, I think it looks better than last time, but it certainly isn’t progressing fast. Perhaps we should try some paste in it. That might help dry it up a little.’

Beth nodded, then redressed the wound, filling the pitting in the leg with Comfeel paste before replacing the colloid dressing with a fresh one. While she worked Mrs Robinson quizzed her openly.

‘You’re new, aren’t you?’

Beth nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right. It’s my first day.’

‘Staying with Dr Pendragon, I hear.’

‘In the coach house flat,’ Beth filled in hastily. No point in letting that rumour run away with itself! But it seemed her patient was better informed than that.

‘‘Oh, I know that, dear,’ she said. ‘Wonderful now, isn’t it? Met the children yet?’

Beth shook her head. ‘No—no, I haven’t.

‘Lovely children—such a shame about the mother.’

‘Mmm.’ Beth was deliberately non-committal, not wishing to get into a discussion about Gideon with this sweet but congenitally nosy old dear—and particularly not about his wife. She had already floundered in there where angels with any sense would fear to tread. ‘How does that feel?’ she asked.

‘Better. Thank you so much, dear.’

Beth showed her out, holding the door for the fragile little woman, and as she watched her go she wondered how far the old lady had to come.

‘Mrs Robinson?’ she called, running after her. ‘Would it help you if the district nurse came to do your dressing?’

Bright eyes sparkled up at Beth. ‘Oh, no, dear—I’d miss all the gossip! Besides, I only live next door.’

Beth smiled and let her go. The exercise and change of scene was probably good for her, anyway.

David Hendry, Gideon’s smoking heart bypass patient, walked past her as she was about to go back in. She knew it was him because as he passed her he paused to speak, then raised his hand to his mouth and coughed, and Beth could hear the damage he was doing in the bronchitic rattle from his chest.

‘Nasty cough you’ve got there,’ she said conversationally. ‘Bad cold?’

‘Nah—damn fags cause that. The dreaded weed.’

She smiled sympathetically. ‘Tough giving up, isn’t it? I used to smoke myself when I was training, but I gave up when I became a staff nurse! I still remember how hard it was.’

Her patient snorted. ‘You’re telling me. I’ve tried—God knows I’ve tried, but this time it’s got to work. There’s just too much at stake.’ He met her eyes, his own pleading. ‘I gather you’re running the Stop Smoking clinic with Dr Pendragon.’

‘That’s right.’

His mouth twisted. ‘Well, I wish you luck with me. I can’t do it on my own, but I really must make it stick this time.’

She laid a hand on his shoulder and smiled. ‘We’ll get you there, Mr Hendry, don’t you worry. You’ll do it this time. I won’t let you fail.’

He met her eyes, and she could see doubt and scepticism mingled with hope in their depths.

‘I’ll see you Monday, then.’

She watched him go, a relatively young man whom lack of exercise, family history and years of self-abuse had threatened with an untimely end. Could she save him? Not alone, of course, but would her contribution make any difference to the final outcome?

She didn’t know, but one thing she was sure of— she’d have a damn good try.

Friday, and the end of the week. Beth dropped the patient records back into Reception and smiled at Molly.

‘All done?’

She nodded. ‘I hope so. I’ve got to sort some things out for the Stop Smoking clinic on Monday, but otherwise I think I’ve done everything.’

‘Good.’ Molly glanced up at her. ‘Settling in all right at the Rectory?’

‘Oh, yes—it’s lovely,’ Beth told her honestly, genuinely delighted by her accommodation. She was less sure about her boss, though. Other than strictly professional exchanges, he had been very distant since the first night—really, since she had made that remark about his wife.

How was she to know, though? The man didn’t have a brand on his forehead that proclaimed him a widower. She felt bad that she’d hurt him, even so, especially after he had bent over backwards to make her welcome.

His desperation had certainly been justified, she acknowledged. She had worked full-time these past two days to help Julie catch up with her backlog, and then from Monday would be working just the mornings and Tuesday afternoon, as planned, with the smoking cessation clinic on Monday evenings some of the time.

For someone used to working full-time, it wasn’t much. She would have to find something to fill her leisure hours. Maybe one of her elderly patients had a dog that needed walking, or perhaps she could do some shopping for one of them. She’d ask—but not now. Now, she wanted to find a shop in the square and buy something to eat tonight, and then go back and cook it and eat it in front of the television, curled up on that unbelievably comfortable sofa.

Maybe she’d take up patchwork or tapestry or something to while away the long winter evenings.

It was only September, but already the nights were drawing in and there was a chill in the air.

She said goodnight to Molly and headed for the door.

Spaghetti, perhaps, or maybe a couple of those wonderful cheeses from the specialist food shop that lurked innocently on one side of the square.

She went in and bought some dolcelatte and a slice of a sheep’s milk roulé, and then on impulse picked up a bottle of Chianti.

‘Celebrating something?’

He didn’t mean to speak to her, but it was difficult to avoid her all the time and he didn’t want to be conspicuously churlish.

She turned and smiled, the wine in her hand. ‘Not really—it just looked appealing.’

‘You shouldn’t drink alone,’ he found himself saying.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t, as a rule, but—well, I thought tonight…’

She looked suddenly wistful, and he found himself asking her to join them for supper. ‘Nothing fancy—just spaghetti bolognese, I think, tonight. It’s Will’s turn, and he always does spaghetti.’

She nearly laughed. ‘I was going to cook that for myself.’

‘So will you come?’ He found himself waiting for her reply.

‘Thank you, yes, I will. I’ll bring the cheeses—we can have them afterwards.’

Her smile brushed her eyes with gold, and he felt the ache start again, low down. Damn. Now what had he done?

‘Fine,’ he said tersely. ‘Seven o’clock?’

‘That would be lovely—if you’re sure?’

‘Quite sure,’ he lied. ‘We’ll see you then—I’ll leave the lights on.’