The Time is Now

by Gill Sanderson

  She stared at those dark blue eyes, for some reason now even darker. She stared at those curved, very kissable lips. She had half forgotten how really handsome he was because now that he was her friend she saw the friendship before the good looks. But was he more than a friend?

  He leaned forward, took her hand and held it up, gently running his fingers along the inside of her naked arm. The caress was gentle but strangely effective. She wouldn't have thought that the inside of her arm would have been so sensitive. She closed her eyes.

  They were still facing each other. She felt his hands reach to her shoulders, the fingers on top, stroking the sensitive side of her neck, his thumbs touching her cheeks. It was so soothing.

  ‘Let me sit beside you,’ his gentle voice urged.

  She didn't open her eyes, but she eased herself to the side of the bed and felt him move beside her. She slid further down the bed, stretching her legs out. His arm came round her shoulders and she half turned to nestle against him.

  He bent over to kiss her. She knew what was happening, what was going to happen. She wanted it to happen. She liked – loved ‑ David. No, her feelings for him were confused. But definitely she wanted this to happen. She was twenty-nine, able to make up her own mind, not a foolish young girl. She giggled.

  ‘And what are you laughing at?’ he asked, his voice soft, amused.

  ‘I was thinking that I was going into this with my eyes open, but I've got them closed.’

  ‘So you're happy? No worries at all?’

  ‘I'm perfectly happy.’

  She felt him move against her, felt the delicate touch of his lips on first one eyelid then the other. ‘Yes,’ he breathed, ‘your eyes are closed.’

  Then he was kissing her and it seemed to go on for ever. She slid further down the bed and he slid with her. She felt at ease, perfectly happy.

  His fingers ran down the front of her blouse, popping open the buttons one by one. She shivered as the tips touched her skin, stroked the swell of her breasts. She wasn't going to be a passive partner ‑ if she was giving herself she would give herself wholeheartedly. Her arms stretched up round his neck and she pulled him against her. Now they were side by side, facing each other, and his tongue touched the inside of her lips, then moved deeper.

  He continued to stroke her. His hand was now under her blouse and she sighed with delight as he ran his hand up and down her spine. With a deft movement he undid her bra, and the release felt good. She sobbed with passion as he dipped his head to her freed breasts and took each into his mouth in turn. Her body seemed to be burning, the urgent desire flashing between her hips, her breast, and her loins. She knew that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Now her hands were underneath his shirt, feeling the hard warmth of his body. Their clothes were in the way, they should –

  The phone rang.

  Both stopped, their bodies frozen with shock. The phone didn't stop ringing. She looked at it, a hateful black plastic object on his bedside table. It was still ringing.

  ‘You're on call,’ she said, her voice hoarse. ‘Answer it.’

  ‘But, Jane …’

  ‘You know you have to. If you don't they might send someone round.’

  He leaned back and picked up the receiver. She heard a tense, ‘Yes?’

  There was a pause. She was looking at his face now and she saw the raw emotion drain away, to be replaced by a more impassive look. He snapped, ‘I understand. I'll be there in exactly fifteen minutes. You've sent for Mr Steadman? … Good.’

  He, replaced the receiver and swung his legs so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head bowed. She sat upright to put her arms round him from behind. There was a sweet sadness in the way her breasts pushed against his back.

  ‘No, there isn't time,’ she said, ‘and I feel as badly as you do. But sit here for just a minute and kiss me.’ She wriggled to sit beside him.

  It was a different kind of kiss. She could feel the passion still there, but both of them knew there was nothing they could do about it. After a while she pushed him away, and reached behind her back to fasten her bra.

  ‘Time for you to move, Dr Kershaw,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘I should splash some cold water on your face. You look as if you've been … enjoying yourself.’ Then she started to button up her blouse. She didn't want to look at his face again so she kept her head down. He didn't move.

  ‘Come on, David, you're a professional, just as I am. Time to go to work. How long are you going to be?’

  He shrugged. ‘I'll be honest. It's an emergency Wertheim's hysterectomy, but we don't know how far the carcinoma has spread so it could go on for hours. You don't want to stay and …?’

  She shook her head. ‘You know that wouldn't be a good idea.’ She added mischievously, ‘For a start, you wouldn't be able to concentrate on what you were doing. No, David, I've had a lovely day, and we nearly had a wonderful ending. But I'd better go home now.’

  ‘I suppose you're right. What about tomorrow?’

  She smiled at him sadly. ‘I did tell you, I'm going on a course for a week over at Leeds University. It's on new techniques of Theatre management. But I'll be back next weekend. Will you phone me while I'm away?’

  ‘Of course I will. Look, d'you want to stay here a while? I can't even take you home.’

  ‘No problem. It's not too late — I'll get a bus or a taxi. Come on, I'll walk across to the hospital with you.’

  Jane took a taxi home. She felt unsure of herself — the interrupted evening with David had unsettled her 1 more than she'd realised. It wasn't just that they'd been stopped from … It was a lot of things.

  Almost always she went out on Saturday nights. Usually she went to the club and she thought about telling the taxi to drive there now, but decided against it. She liked company, but company at the club wasn't what she needed right now. She almost persuaded herself that she needed to prepare for the course that started on Monday, but she knew it wasn't true. She'd already read the books and articles they'd asked her to.

  It would have helped if her friends had been home, but neither was there. Irritated, she flung about the house for twenty minutes, then went upstairs and ran herself a long bath. Usually she had a shower – it was seldom she allowed herself time for a bath. But tonight she had more time than she knew what to do with. She could always ring the Samaritans and ask if they needed an extra hand. No, not tonight. She wasn't fit to listen to other people's problems. She had her own. She would sit and soak.

  She poured large amounts of foam bath into the water. It belonged to her friends but she knew they wouldn't mind. Then she undressed. For a moment she caught sight of her naked body in the full-length mirror, and a thought flashed through her mind. That body could have been … She blushed, and lowered herself into the bath.

  After a while the hot water soothed away some of her anguish, the foam relaxed her and she felt a bit better then she had. She knew she had to think about things. For a start, why was she in such a state?

  She had nearly let David Kershaw make love to her. Make love to her? What had love to do with it? He'd never said he loved her. They'd talked about what he wanted at the Black Lion – in fact, she'd mentioned it first. A casual affair.

  So why had she gone with him so readily? If not a virgin, she certainly wasn't given to casual sex. For her, sex was part of a much wider relationship. Why had she, tough Jane, a match for any man, so readily given way to David Kershaw? No, it hadn't been giving way. She'd been as eager as he.

  Jane liked David. She enjoyed his company, they were friends. There was a question she was being drawn towards but she didn't want to think about it, she didn't want to have to answer it. But she would have to. Did she love David? Had she become one of the women fatally attracted to him who later paid the price for their love? It looked like it. So should she give him up? It made sense when she knew he wasn't going to marry her.

  The minute she thought of giving him up, she felt desolate. It wasn't what she wante
d. She couldn't give him up – no matter what it cost her. And she wouldn't sit here and mope. It was still quite early. She climbed out of the bath, dressed and walked out to her car. She would drive to the clubhouse and find some company.

  Jane enjoyed the course. It was always interesting to meet people from other hospitals, who did the same things but often in different ways. And the course content itself was very good – she decided she'd write a memo to the hospital management committee and ask Edmund Steadman if he would support her proposals. She thought he well might.

  And Leeds was her old stamping ground. She revisited the places she'd known when she'd lived there with John Gilmore. The pub they used to drink in was still there, but the ward she'd worked in had changed completely. The building that housed the little flat they'd lived in had been completely renovated, and their flat no longer existed. That was symbolic, she realised. These days she seldom thought of John, and when she did there was no longer that catch at the heart, that momentary hurt. He had passed out of her life. She thought of David more.

  But had John been replaced by David? Was she asking for more heartache? She didn't know.

  He rang her at the end of her first day on her mobile and she told him the number of her room extension for the future. They could talk longer that way. And she liked hearing from him.

  ‘It's a good group of people,’ she told him. ‘We're being worked very hard, and I'm now in the bar, having a bit of a post-mortem on what we've learned so far.’

  ‘Enjoy yourself. Are there any lovely men there?’

  ‘Don't ask for compliments,’ she told him. ‘It doesn't suit you. And, yes, there are lots of lovely men here.’

  ‘Oh, I see. What's your room like?’

  ‘It's a lot better than yours. It's en suite.’

  She could hear the laughter in his voice. ‘So my room didn't give you happy memories?’

  ‘Well, sort of. Some happy memories certainly. But I had the feeling of being saved by the bell — telephone bell this time.’

  This time he laughed out loud. ‘Funny. I feel just the opposite. Jane, it's good to hear your voice. Shall I ring again in a couple of nights?’

  ‘I'd like that,’ she said honestly. ‘I'd like that very much.’

  Actually, he rang every night and she looked forward to his calls. They had cheerful, noncommittal conversations. He told her that the scrub nurse who was taking her place wasn't half as competent as she was, and Edmund Steadman was getting noisily furious. ‘He needs you back,’ David said. ‘In fact, we all need you back to keep him happy.’

  ‘It's nice to be wanted just for yourself.’

  On the Friday he rang just as the group were saying goodbye, exchanging addresses and promising to keep in touch.

  ‘I want a date,’ he said. ‘What are you doing on Sunday afternoon?’

  ‘Nothing I can't put off. Why?’

  ‘I'm in the flat. The things we bought have been arriving, and I've even got the boxes of my own stuff. I've got to make sense of everything. D'you fancy coming round and helping me? I need the suggestions of a home-maker.’

  ‘A home-maker or a labourer?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, actually, a labourer. But I pay good rates. And I'll get you a banquet. A Chinese take-away.’

  ‘I doubt a posh place like Ransome's Wharf will allow take-aways,’ she said lightly, ‘but I'll be happy to come and help.’

  She was glad that she'd be seeing him so soon.

  Next morning the drive over the Pennines was exhilarating. She didn't know why it should be, but the sun was out and the green mountains reminded her of what she was missing in her flat home territory. For some reason she felt better able to think about the letter from her parents. David had been right. After the passing of some time she was able to think about things without an automatic emotional response. She rehearsed the reasons for and against getting in touch with them as calmly and dispassionately as she could.

  So far in her life she'd never worried about who her real parents were. She hadn't even wondered about them, even though she'd been told at an early age that she was adopted. Her life with her mother and with Peter had been perfectly happy. Her real – if that was the right word – parents had given up their child. After twenty-nine years why should they want to reverse that decision?

  But she knew from working with the Samaritans, from listening to people revealing insoluble problems, that chance and circumstances could pile up against almost anyone. She recalled the number of sad stories she'd heard from people who'd done nothing wrong!

  And didn't people change? Her parents were now nearly thirty years older.

  She didn't need a new mother, new parents in her life. Finding them might mean an emotional rollercoaster ride she was just not prepared for. But as she thought this, she knew what she was going to do. If nothing was ever risked, life would be very boring.

  Of course, there was a middle course. She could write to them without revealing either her name or address, then if things didn't work out she could forget it. But as she thought this, she knew it wasn't true. Once contact had been made it would be almost impossible to back away.

  As she dropped down onto the Lancashire plain she decided definitely that she would write. And she would do it at once.

  She got home, shouted hello to Sue and Megan, took a cup of coffee up to her room, and sat at her writing table. She took up her pen, wrote 'Dear' and after five minutes put down her pen again. This was going to be hard. If she said how happy her childhood had been, would that be seen as a reproach to her biological mother? If she didn't, would that be an insult to the memory of her dead adopted mother?

  Dear who? Mother, Ma, Mum? After ten minutes staring at the one word, she scratched it out and wrote, “I have just scratched out ‘Dear’ because I don't know what to call you. So I'll just tell you a bit about myself.” After that it got a bit easier. She didn't want to write too much, just a few facts. She mentioned her life, her training, the fact she was very happy as a nurse. She wasn't married, but one day she hoped to be. Then there was the difficult bit. She had to explain that she was doubtful about any meeting but that perhaps she was willing to try it. It was hard to explain because she wasn't really certain herself.

  The letter was finished, reread, and stuffed in an envelope. Then she hurried to the post-box, knowing that if she held onto the letter she'd have second thoughts. The second thoughts did come as she walked away – but by then it was too late.

  David's car drew up outside promptly at one the next afternoon. Jane ran out to greet him, wearing the tracksuit she usually had on for slopping around the house. In one bag she carried a selection of old clothes and in another a selection of dusters, cleaning stuffs, and polishes. She waved her bags at him. 'I'm coming to work,' she said, 'and I'm dressed for it.'

  He too, was dressed for work. The muscles in his thighs were outlined through his jeans, and the dusty T-shirt he was wearing was far too tight. She hadn't seen him for a week, and realised how much she'd missed him. He kissed her. After a blissful minute she pushed him away. ‘Get in the car and drive,’ she said. ‘I'm in the mood for work.’

  ‘They've finished the place and cleaned it,’ he said as they travelled upwards in the lift at Ransome's Wharf a little while later. ‘I must say I'm very pleased. Or I will be when I get all the stuff organised. You were right about only getting the minimum at first — I couldn't have coped with more. And I hadn't realised how much stuff I'd acquired myself.’

  First they went into the living room. The wooden blinds had been fitted and looked well, the couch was in position and the dull red material echoed the brick walls perfectly. But in the middle of the room was a set of tea chests and carefully tied stout cardboard boxes. ‘My life,’ he said pointing at the boxes, ‘all wrapped up, ready to come out again.’

  ‘Let's get started. I'll go and get changed.’

  The first thing they did was find the box that held his music centre, for they'd already dec
ided just where it was to go. Once that was out and installed he asked her to choose a CD. ‘Music while we work,’ he said.

  She picked almost at random. There was a selection of songs from musical shows – that would do. Later, she promised herself, she would have a good look through the other titles. You could tell a lot about a man from his choice of music.

  They opened more boxes. He started on his clothes while she sorted his books. Bookshelves had been delivered and fitted in the room that was to be his study, so she started to fill them.

  They were interesting books. There were textbooks, of course, far more than he'd had in his hospital room. There was also a well-read set of Dickens, accounts of sea voyages, and a surprising number of books on medicinal plants and herbs – including the famous Culpeper. ‘Why so many books on herbs?’ she shouted.

  He poked his head round the study door. ‘I think there's a lot of knowledge about herbal remedies that we ignore at our peril,’ he said. ‘Some research is now suggesting that some primitive peoples knew quite a bit.’ He grinned. ‘A pity they didn't know more about germs and so on.’

  She picked up a large book, obviously expensive, of photographs of London. A well-known photographer had taken them. ‘This is nice,’ she said, and opened the front cover. There she saw a vast dedication scrawled across a dark picture of London docks. It was in golden ink. “To darling David. All my love and kisses, Diane.”

  ‘This book is dedicated to you,’ she said. ‘“All my love and kisses, Diane.”’

  He laughed. ‘“All my love and kisses”? I think that was a bit of an exaggeration.’

  ‘But you've kept the book,’

  ‘Because I like the pictures — no other reason.’ He squinted at her. ‘You almost sound jealous, Jane.’

  ‘Don't be silly,’ she snapped, and rapidly pushed books on the shelves to hide her confusion.

  He walked away. The next big book she picked up intrigued her even more. It was a family photograph album. She couldn't help herself – she had to look inside. There were pictures of him as a schoolboy, as a young doctor, walking in the hills. She put it to one side as she wanted to go through it with him some time, and have him tell her all about each picture. She wanted to know him.