Practice Makes Perfect

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.