And Daughter Makes Three

‘Took out an appendix on a girl with Munchausen’s—but you’ll be safe there. It doesn’t happen in orthopaedics. Either it’s broken or it isn’t!’

She chuckled. ‘I hope you’re right. I’ll probably end up recommending arthroscopy on someone’s knee when there’s nothing at all wrong with it.’

He drained his coffee-cup and put it down on the table. ‘Um—I don’t suppose you fancy a drink tonight?’

The idea was suddenly immensely appealing. ‘That would be lovely,’ she told him, a smile softening her tired eyes.

‘Seven? I’ll pick you up—I take it you’re living in?’

She nodded wryly. ‘Are you?’

‘For my sins. I’m only just back here—I’ve been away for a while as a registrar in Cambridge—and I haven’t got a flat sorted out yet. I don’t think it’ll be long, though. Those rooms are the pits.’

She laughed with him, and watched as he left the room. She was still smiling as her bleeper went, and with a sigh she got up and went over to the phone.

‘Dr Bradley,’ she told the switchboard.

‘Putting you through,’ the voice replied, and suddenly there was a young, hesitant girl on the line.

‘Um—is that Frankie?’

‘Yes, it is. Is that Jane Ryder?’

‘Yeah—listen, can you do me a favour? It’s my father’s birthday today and I’m cooking him a special meal tonight, and I thought it would be nice if you could join us. It’d make it more of a celebration, somehow, and give me a chance to thank you for bailing Dad out so he could fetch me from the station and bring me home. So,’ she said, all in a rush and running out of breath, ‘will you come?’

She sounded so hopeful, and Frankie didn’t have the heart to disappoint her. Besides which, it would be an ideal opportunity to get to know her enigmatic and very reserved boss a little better. She could always put Gavin off for another time.

‘Yes, of course I’ll come.’

‘Are you sure? It’s probably the last thing you want to do—’

‘Nonsense,’ Frankie interrupted. ‘I’ll look forward to it. What time?’

‘Seven-thirty? Oh, and do you like chicken curry?’

‘Ah. Um, Jane, I’m vegetarian.’

There was a horrified silence. ‘So I guess that means you don’t like chicken,’ she said eventually.

‘Look, if it messes things up for you I don’t need to come, Jane.’

‘But I want you to!’ the girl wailed.

‘Then I will. Don’t worry about feeding me—I can have all the accompaniments.’

‘Oh. Well, I could do you some veg in a curry sauce—would that do?’

‘That would be lovely,’ she said firmly. ‘Don’t worry about me; cook what your father likes. It’s his birthday. How do I get there?’

Jane gave her the directions—somewhat haphazard, but hopefully she could unravel them in the dark.

‘What’s the phone number, in case I get lost?’

Jane rattled off the number, then added, ‘By the way, don’t tell him—it’s a surprise.’

It was raining, just to add insult to injury. Gavin had been understanding—to a point. ‘Had a better offer?’ he’d ribbed gently.

‘I’m sorry,’ she’d apologised. ‘Perhaps another time?’

His smile had been wry. ‘Yeah—maybe. Have a good evening.’

She felt she’d disappointed him, but there was no point in encouraging him if he had any ideas about their relationship. He was a nice man, but he didn’t do anything for her—unlike Robert—

‘Damn!’ She slithered to an undignified halt and reversed back, peering at the road sign. Was this it? No. Damn again. She drove on till she found a pub, then went in and asked the barman the way.

He yelled across the bar, ‘Hey, Fred, how d’you get to Ryder’s old place? Is that first left or second?’

‘Doc Ryder?’ Fred shrugged away from the wall by the dartboard, picked his teeth thoughtfully as he sauntered towards them and eyed Frankie with interest. ‘Goin’ there, are you?’

‘If I can find it.’

He nodded. ‘Back down to the bottom of the hill, turn right, go about two miles, first left, along about couple hundred yards or so on the right. Thatched place, it is. Old Tudor job—white gates.’

All eyes were on her, as if a woman visiting Robert Ryder was a rare and notable occurrence.

She forced a smile. ‘Thank you. I’m sure I’ll find it now.’ She made for the door, and was just opening it when Fred hailed her.

‘Hear his daughter’s home.’

She turned back slightly. ‘Yes.’

‘Good job, too. The mother’s not worth her weight in chicken sh—ah, manure.’

Amidst the ribald laughter she made her escape from the pub, running across the potholed car park in the slashing rain.

Just before she reached her car she put her foot into a pothole, jarred her ankle and splashed muddy water all the way up her clean tights. Swearing comprehensively and most satisfyingly under her breath, she slammed the car door, started the engine and drove back down the hill, along a miserable, rutted lane for two miles or more, until she was sure that Fred had got it wrong.

Then suddenly there was a little turning, an even smaller road, and on the right a low, thatched house with lights blazing a welcome from all the windows. There was an old-fashioned lamppost at the entrance, and in its warm glow she saw the name on the opened gate.

Freedom Farm …

CHAPTER THREE (#u0739085e-b34e-5f10-9115-2245af2b9ea6)

IT WAS a lovely evening. Jane had gone to huge lengths to prepare a meal to remember, and Robert was obviously touched and very, very proud.

The fact that Robert clearly hadn’t been expecting her was obvious from the look on his face when he opened the door. However, he quickly recovered his poise, accepted the bottle of vintage port with a polite murmur of protest and then showed her through into the drawing room.

It was spotlessly tidy, a lovely, heavily beamed room with formal furniture and an air of expectancy. While Robert fetched her a drink she found herself looking round the room and trying to work out what was wrong with it, because it lacked something indefinable but very, very important.