* * *
The next day she kept her word to him. As she did her rounds, she let it be known that she was pleased with the new consultant. In the departmental staff room she mentioned how much Chris had impressed her. For a hot-shot city doctor, she added, not wanting to appear so full of praise that people started wondering why. But every word she said added to the feeling of guilt that she should have let the partisan feeling build up in the first place. It didn’t make her feel any better when mid-afternoon she took a call that had been routed from Freddie’s phone and a sultry voice asked for Mr Ford.
‘Mr Ford doesn’t start work until next week,’ said Faith crisply. ‘This extension still belongs to Mr Myers.’
‘Oh.’ The voice sounded disconcerted and considerably less sultry. ‘Are you sure? Mr Ford was in a finance meeting this morning. I’ve got the figures he wanted.’
It was news to Faith that Chris had come into the hospital for a meeting, but then why would he tell her? She’d only been running the department in Freddie’s absence. What’s more, she had now identified the voice on the phone. Veronica Beresford from the bursar’s office. Divorced, predatory ... it was a sign of things to come. Her irritation grew.
‘Thanks. If you send the figures through the internal mail, the O&G secretary will see Mr Ford gets them next week.’
She put the phone down and pressed her fingers to her temple. Just for once she decided she would leave work on time. She called her junior registrar, told him he was in charge, and went home to get some much-needed peace in her garden.
At home she did half-an-hour’s gardening and then sat on the terrace with a mug of tea just watching the green horizon of the Pennines. She was deliberately not thinking about work or neighbours or decisions. And then the peace was broken by sound of a child’s angry screams.
‘I want to see Faith! I want to see Faith! I want to see Faith!’
It was Molly, bursting out of her own cottage, her little legs pumping down the next-door garden path.
‘And I said no, Molly.’ That was Chris, running out after his daughter. ‘Faith is a busy doctor. She might not even be at home. Even if she is, you can’t just burst in and see her like that. It’s very rude.’
‘She IS home. I can see her.’
‘Molly, stop it.’ Chris caught up and lifted the little girl into his arms.
Molly’s screams rose. ‘Put me down. Want to see Faith. I hate you!’
Faith stood up and strolled down to the fence. ‘Goodness me, what a noise,’ she said mildly.
‘Faith!’ Molly wriggled and stretched out her arms.
Chris held on tight. He looked fraught and embarrassed. ‘Sorry. I asked her to play quietly by herself while I made a phone call and ...’
Faith held Molly’s tear-filled gaze. ‘Daddy is quite right,’ she said. ‘You can’t just run into someone else’s garden as if it was your own. But if you stop crying and ask nicely, you can play here while Daddy makes his phone call.’
Molly gulped back a sob. ‘Can Panda come?’ she said in a small voice.
Faith nodded.
Molly slithered down and trotted back to the house.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ said Chris. ‘I wouldn’t normally let her get away with a tantrum but an old friend has just had bad news about his wife’s illness and I ...’
He looked so weary Faith’s heart twanged. ‘Shh. Of course you must ring him. Molly will be OK with me.’
‘Thank you. I know she will. I don’t understand. I thought she was settling down. She’s been so good today. She went to the playroom this morning while I was introduced to the joys of the hospital budget. Then we made lunch and had a nice walk around the village. And now she’s suddenly a monster again.’
‘Jealous?’ suggested Faith. ‘Because you wanted to do something at home without her?’
‘Maybe. The child psychologist I consulted suggested that Molly misbehaves because she’s frightened that I might leave her like her mother did. She needs all my attention – emotionally, anyway. She mustn’t see me getting too friendly with anyone who might take me away from her.’ He made a frustrated gesture, his face bleak. ‘So I say I need to make a phone call and she shouts out that she hates me.’
Molly reappeared with the familiar pink toy. Faith put her hand on Chris’s arm, needing to make him feel better. ‘She didn’t mean it. She doesn’t really hate you. Children always dare most where they feel most safe. My sisters used to save their very worst language for me, but the good news is that they grew out of it once they were in their twenties.’
As she’d intended, Chris gave a small chuckle. ‘Their twenties, eh? Nice to know there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Thanks, Faith. I’ll come and get her when I’ve finished the call.’
‘No hurry,’ said Faith. ‘You’re allowed to have some time for yourself now and again.’ She realised suddenly that her hand was still on his arm and snatched it away just as Molly ran up.
Chris made a show of holding back an overgrown forsythia bush so Molly could get through the gap. Faith got the feeling he was as embarrassed as her at not noticing the prolonged physical contact.
* * *
Chris went back to the cottage. It was nice of Faith to cheer him up, but at times like this, with an unhappy task ahead of him, he felt a complete failure. I hate you! Those words had cut him to the quick. And yet he had to be strong with Molly, he couldn’t give in to her every whim as his parents had been doing recently. He had to help his daughter develop into a more balanced little girl.
On his way to the phone, he looked through the window to where Molly and Faith were playing catch, both running, calling, laughing. He blinked, surprised. It seemed to him that Faith was enjoying herself just as much as Molly. She looked so relaxed and happy! No sign of the careful barrier she had erected between herself and him. Just for a moment he caught himself wishing ...
No. He set his jaw and pushed the memory of Faith’s touch away. He had to remain single in deed as well as in word. He wouldn’t deceive his daughter.
Then he thought of his ex-wife and his mood changed. He felt so much guilt for the way he had let Lorraine down. Despite psychologists saying she’d more or less decided in her own mind where to go, he couldn’t help blaming himself a bit and was sad at the way things had turned out. He had done everything he could. But it hadn’t been enough.
As he remembered dreadful scene after dreadful scene, he shuddered. No way was he going to risk going through that again! Not for Molly or himself. The worry, the heartache, the sleepless nights. He had been burned once, it would be a long time before he would go near that particular fire again.
Fortunately Faith seemed as keen not to progress the relationship as he was. It begged the question of why she was so determinedly single. The landlord of the Earnshaw Arms had hinted at something and Chris had sensed a general feeling of sympathy for her during his walks around the village. Every time he’d mentioned her name there had been a wave of warm regret. He wondered who had hurt her and why. No, he didn’t simply wonder – he felt angry with whoever had hurt Faith.
* * *
Faith and Molly played in the garden for a little while, then went into the house. Faith had forgotten how tiring small children could be. Molly had a small child’s curiosity and wandered round happily. She opened cupboards in the living room, peered inside the fridge in the kitchen, washed her hands in the bathroom. Most of all she loved Faith’s bedroom.
It was a simple room, white walls with just a touch of pink, built-in pine furniture, a dark rose carpet contrasting with a pink throw on the bed. There was a view of the hills from the window. Faith had positioned the double bed so that in the morning she could look out at the line of green peaks. It was the room she and Mike had been going to use, but ...
She sat down abruptly on the bed trying to hide her sudden tumultuous thoughts. Was it having Molly here? Reminding her that she was now alone? But she had accepted that! Yes, she and M
ike had spent time planning and decorating. A partnership, they had agreed on so many things. And then he had died. And she had felt her heart die with him and made her decision never ever to put herself through that pain again.
Now she looked at the pictures she had painted – one wall covered with paintings of landscapes, paintings of family, simple paintings of flowers. How long was it since she’d had a brush in her hands? Not since she had heard about Mike.
‘Who drawed all these, Faith?’ asked Molly, fascinated by the paintings.
‘I did, sweetheart. I used to paint a lot.’
Molly stared at a picture of the fells. ‘I like drawing,’ she said.
Faith stood silent, thoughtful for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and made a decision. After all, how hard could it be? ‘Well, let’s go down to the kitchen and perhaps we could both do some drawing.’
She sat Molly down at the table and gave her an orange juice. When she was much younger she had loved painting with her sisters. But now she would help Molly to crayon, not to paint. Using water-colour paints with a little girl was fun but it frequently involved spattered clothes which would then have to be washed at once. Not something she wanted to wish on Chris. Perhaps some time she might tell him to dress Molly in a paint-acceptable outfit so they could ... no, don’t plan!
She slipped into the back-scullery to fetch paper and crayons. All her art material had been stored here. Her paints, brushes, easel and everything else, all neatly packed. She remembered the tears as she cleaned everything, wrapped it, put it away. It had been like saying goodbye to an old friend – but the urge, the need, even the ability to paint, had vanished. She hadn’t been sure it would ever come back.
‘What are you going to draw? Something for Daddy?’
‘Ladybirds,’ Molly said after a moment’s thought. Her eyes widened. ‘Did you know there are some in our garden too?’
She sounded so surprised that Faith laughed. ‘The whole world is one big garden to insects. They just pick where they want to go. Draw one first and then colour it in.’
Molly concentrated, bent low over the paper and drew a thick, wobbly red circle. Faith looked at her bowed head and couldn’t help a feeling of loss, of chances now gone. Chances gone for good.
It seemed no time at all before Chris was politely tapping on the back door. Molly slid down from her chair, good as gold and happy to see him. Chris met Faith’s eyes with a helpless shrug.
‘Are we all going to have tea here again?’ Molly wanted to know.
‘Not today, darling,’ said Chris. ‘That was just special for our first day.’
‘Oh, I forgot,’ said Faith as she saw them out. ‘You had a call this afternoon from Veronica Beresford in the bursar’s office. Something about some figures. I told her to put them in the internal mail.’ She carefully didn’t ask what the finances referred to, though she would have liked to know.
‘Thanks,’ said Chris. ‘That was efficient. I told her there was no hurry. I want to play with the costs to see if we can squeeze an extra member of staff out of the budget.’
Somehow Faith didn’t think it was playing with costs that Veronica had had in mind. But she kept the thought to herself.
She felt strangely restless once they’d gone. She picked up Molly’s discarded crayons, sketched a ladybird herself. Hmm, not very good at all, she needed to practise. She sketched another one. Yes, this was better. There was a vague yearning inside her, making her uncomfortable. Dammit, this was Chris’s fault. Chris and Molly. She’d been perfectly content before they moved in next door. Now she was having to remind herself daily that she was never going to get involved with a man again – and she was having wistful thoughts about painting!
All right. She’d accepted that she should be moving on. That’s why she’d applied for the job at Hadrian’s Wall hospital. If she got it she would be head of her own department. Lots of much work, lots of responsibility, she would revel in it.
Or was it something other than work that she needed?
The traitorous thought was in her head before she could keep it out.
‘No!’ she said in distress. ‘No!’
She whirled back to the scullery with Molly’s crayons. And stopped, deliberately conjuring up memories, deliberately reminding herself of the pain that love could unknowingly bring.
There was a mural in here. She’d wanted to bring the garden into the house, so she’d painted flower beds and trees around the walls. Mike had loved it. He had appreciated her work so much because he couldn’t paint himself. He had thought being able to draw and paint was wonderful. Sometimes he used to lean over her shoulders as she worked. And then he’d gently ease her hair aside and kiss her softly on the back of her neck. ‘Mike, I can’t concentrate when you do that,’ she’d said, mock-reproachfully.
‘So do you want me to stop?’
‘Just once more,’ she would say. ‘Or perhaps twice. But it’s nice and it makes me want to ...’
Once, as a joke, when she was sketching in the garden, she had given him a pencil and asked him to draw the front of their cottage. He had tried and the result had been terrible. Then she had picked up the pencil and had altered what he had drawn – and made it quite a reasonable picture. He had been delighted! ‘We’re a creative couple,’ he had yelled. ‘Just think how beautiful our children will be! Perhaps we could go and ...’ But they’d had no children.
When he had died, she had tried to paint. When they were together it used to calm her, bring her peace. But painting brought back memories of him that were too painful, so she had stopped. Completely. Stored all her art material and wondered if she would ever take it out again.
‘Now do you remember?’ she demanded of herself aloud. ‘Do you remember the desolation? Remember the emptiness? That’s why you’re not falling in love again. Not ever.’
She put the crayons away with a slam of the cupboard door and in doing so the next door swung open. Charcoal sticks. Faith looked at them. Charcoal wasn’t painting. It wasn’t colour. And her hand, mysteriously, was aching to draw.
OK then. She sat at the kitchen table where Molly had sat, stretched out the first sheet of paper, rolled the charcoal rod between her fingers. No flowers. No trees. Nothing to remind her of Mike. She found herself sketching Molly’s face, trying to show the eagerness, the happiness as well as the childish beauty. She could feel what she wanted to draw but it somehow didn’t come out quite right on the paper. She tried again. This time profile rather than full face. And Molly grew on the page, just as she’d wanted. Faith felt her heart expand, felt her eyes fill. It was like riding a bike, or going home to supper with her sisters. Something you didn’t forget after all.
Who to draw next? Chris kept coming into her mind. But he would be harder. It wasn’t just a question of lines and shade; a good drawing of a face told you something about the feelings you had for the model. She knew what she felt about Molly but she was not so sure about Chris. He had an interesting face, she’d like to draw him sometime but first she needed to get her thoughts in order. At the moment her emotions regarding him were confused. They altered from day to day – even from hour to hour.
She looked at the sketch of Molly. She wasn’t as expert as she used to be. But the excitement was returning. Perhaps this was part of pulling herself out of her long period of mourning. Something that would help her face up to starting a new life.
With a flash of understanding she realised that this was partly down to meeting Chris. That moment the other night, that exchange of glances, that awareness – had made her realise how wrong it was to lock up feelings. Locked feelings are liable to break out at the most awkward moments.
So maybe she would do one more picture of Molly – in the garden shed, perhaps, with that mixture of mischief and excitement on her face – and then she would sketch Chris after all. It would show her subconscious that there was nothing to be alarmed over. It would get him out of her system.
* * *
; Molly was happy. Chris had to admit that playing with Faith had been good for her. She was very proud of her drawing, it was fixed to the fridge with one of the fairy magnets Grandma had given her. He realised that she was tired but not over-tired. Bathing her and putting her to bed was comparatively peaceful and she was soon asleep. Faith had worked out just the right amount of excitement a little girl should have before going to bed. Chris didn’t know whether to be irritated or grateful. Why did she not have children of her own? The thought came uninvited that she would make a good mother.
He sat down at the table and looked unenthusiastically at the notes he had made in this morning’s finance meeting. He should get a head start on his new job by going over the previous budgets, but that image of Faith laughing and darting about the garden with Molly was getting in the way. No, this was ridiculous. Work, that’s what was required. He bent his head to the notes.
* * *
‘I don’t quite see,’ said Chris pleasantly, ‘why there was so much less budget available to the O&G department last year.’
Veronica Beresford smiled sympathetically at him. Today she was wearing a dark blue dress that did wonders for her figure, even if she had decked herself out in a little too much jewellery for his taste. She looked sorrowful at his question. ‘There was a Project,’ she said, her voice husky. ‘I’ll show you.’ And she swept him off into the corridor before he realised what was happening.
‘You could just tell me,’ began Chris, but Veronica had her arm through his and was hurrying him down the stairs from the bursar’s office.
For a moment there was a flash of real feeling in her face as she said, ‘I argued against it – told them it was unnecessary but no one agreed. All that money! Quite ridiculous.’
They were heading for the main corridor. Chris wrinkled his brow, trying to think what there was along here to put the bursar’s assistant in a passion. A familiar figure, tall and easy-striding, turned the far corner coming towards them. Faith! Chris was horribly aware of Veronica’s arm through his and tried to disengage it, but the woman hung on.
The Lakeland Doctor's Decision Page 6
