her.
He’d have liked to believe her claim of being nineteen, but her air of bravado had given her away. She’d flirted like a kid, crossing her beautiful legs on the table near him, and saying she liked older men in a ‘come hither’ voice that would have finished him but for his stern resolutions. His advice to ‘go back to your party, pretty little girl’ had been an act of desperation.
He’d promised himself to avoid her, but when he’d seen boys getting her drunk for a laugh he’d had to step in and rescue her.
He’d taken the house key from her purse and carried her up the stairs to what he’d guessed had been her room. He’d removed her clothes because if her mother had found her fully dressed and asleep she might have guessed the truth. He was a doctor, and impersonal, so he’d thought.
But he’d found himself holding a girl wearing a bra and panties so wispy as to have been almost nonexistent. Laying her gently on the bed, he’d been shocked to find how his hands had longed to linger over her silky skin and perfect shape. He’d hung up her dress, using the controlled movements to impose discipline on his mind and, through his mind, his sensations. Discipline, control, order. That was how it had always been with him.
But not this time. Fear had seized him, and he’d got out as fast as he’d been able to.
He’d fled to the imagined safety of Lilian, a girlfriend as sedate and studious as himself. But there had been no safety there, or anywhere. After that it was too late. It had always been too late.
CHAPTER THREE
HETTA and Elinor shared their cramped little room both night and day. It meant that Elinor spent half her night listening for Hetta’s breathing, terrified lest her child had slipped away in the darkness. Each dawn she gave thanks that Hetta was still alive, and tried to convince herself that she wasn’t losing ground. Every morning she went to work and telephoned home after the first hour, to hear Daisy say, ‘She’s fine.’ In the late afternoon she hurried home at the first chance, anxious to look at Hetta’s face and lie to herself that the little girl wasn’t really looking paler or more tired.
There were the regular check-ups with the local doctor, who assured her that Hetta was ‘holding on’. And there were the further check-ups at the hospital, where Sir Elmer Rylance would make kindly noises.
‘I promise you Hetta is top of the list,’ he told her once. ‘As soon as a suitable heart becomes available…’
But day followed day, week followed week, and no heart ever became available.
If it ever did happen she knew she would be called at home, yet she couldn’t help a glimmer of hope as she and Hetta entered the cardiac unit for their April appointment. It was two months since she’d last been here and glimpsed Andrew Blake from a distance. In that time she’d managed to persuade herself that she’d imagined it.
There was a new nurse today, young and not very confident. She ushered Elinor and Hetta into the consulting room and seemed taken aback to find it empty.
‘Oh, yes,’ the nurse said quickly, ‘I should have told you—’
‘It’s all right,’ came a man’s voice from the door. ‘I’ll explain everything to Mrs Landers.’
She knew the voice at once, just as she had recognised his face, despite the years. As he closed the door behind the nurse and went to the desk Elinor waited for him to look at her, braced herself for the shock in his eyes.
‘I apologise for Sir Elmer’s absence, Mrs Landers,’ he said briskly. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone down with a touch of flu. My name is Andrew Blake, and I’m taking over his appointments for today.’
He looked up, shook hands with her briefly, and returned to his notes.
He didn’t recognise her.
After the first shock she felt an overwhelming relief. Only Hetta mattered. She had no time for distractions.
He talked to the child in a gentle, unemotional voice, listened to her heart, and asked questions. He didn’t talk down to her, Elinor was impressed to see, but assumed that she understood a good deal. Hetta didn’t disappoint him. She was an old hand at this by now.
‘Do you get breathless more often than you used to?’ he asked.
Hetta nodded and made a face. ‘It’s a pig.’
‘I’m sure it is. I expect there’s lots you can’t do.’
‘Heaps and heaps,’ she said, sensing a sympathetic ear. ‘I want a dog, but Mummy says it would be too bois—something.’
‘Too boisterous,’ Andrew agreed.
‘Hetta, that’s not really the reason,’ Elinor protested. ‘We can’t have pets in that little room.’
‘You live in one room?’ Andrew asked.
‘In a boarding house. It’s just a bit tiny, but everyone’s fond of Hetta and kind to her.’
‘Do you smoke?’
‘No. I never did, but I wouldn’t do it around Hetta.’
‘Good. What about the other tenants?’
‘Mr Jenson smokes like a chimney,’ Hetta confided. ‘Daisy’s very cross with him.’
‘Tell me about the others.’
Man and child became absorbed in their talk, giving Elinor the opportunity to watch him, and note the changes of twelve years.
He had always been a tall man, slightly too thin for his height. Now that he’d filled out he was imposing. Perhaps his face had grown sharper, his chin a little more forceful, but he still had a thick shock of dark hair with no sign of thinning. At thirty-eight he was the essence of power and success, exactly as he’d always meant to be.
At last he said, ‘Hetta, do you know the play area just along the corridor?’
‘Mmm! They’ve got a rabbit,’ she said wistfully.
‘Would you like to go along and see the rabbit now?’
Hetta nodded and left the room as eagerly as her constant weariness would allow.
‘Is there anyone to help you with her?’ Andrew asked. ‘Family?’
‘My parents are both dead. Daisy helps me a lot. She’s the landlady, and like a second mother to me. She cares for Hetta when I’m out working.’
‘Is your job very demanding?’
‘I’m a freelance beautician. I go into people’s homes to do their hair, nails and make-up. It has the advantage that I can make my own hours.’
‘But if you have to take time off you don’t get paid, I suppose.’
‘It will be different when she’s well. Then I can work really hard and make some money to take her away for a holiday. We talk about that—’ She stopped, her voice running down wearily. Why was she telling him these unlikely dreams that would never come true?
Now she was passionately glad that he hadn’t recognised her as he listened to her tale of defeat and failure.
‘Is Hetta any worse?’ she asked desperately.
‘There’s been some slight deterioration but nothing to be too troubled about. I’ve made a small change in her medication,’ he said, scribbling. ‘It’ll make her breathing a little easier. Call my office if you’re alarmed about her condition.’
I’m always alarmed about her condition, she wanted to scream. I’m alarmed, terrified, despairing. and you can’t help. You were going to be the world’s greatest doctor, but my child is dying and you can’t do anything.
But all she said was, ‘Thank you.’
‘Good day to