out an arm to the telephone, ‘or better still, I’ll take you on my way home.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Lucy politely, ‘but it wouldn’t do at all, you know. For one thing the orphanage is in Willoughby Street and that’s even more East End than here, and for another, I’m sure consultants don’t make a habit of giving lifts to their patients—though perhaps you do if they’re private …’
The doctor sat back in his chair and looked her over. ‘I am aware of where the orphanage is and I give lifts to anyone I wish to. You have a poor opinion of consultants … We are, I should suppose, exactly like anyone else.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you are,’ said Lucy kindly, ‘only much cleverer, of course.’
His heavy eyelids lifted, revealing a pair of very blue eyes. ‘A debatable point,’ he observed. ‘And now if you will go to the front entrance I will meet you there in a few minutes.’
He spoke quietly and she did as he asked, because she had to admit to herself that he had that kind of voice and she was tired. Miranda had gone to sleep again, but once she woke she would want her tea and her cot and would fly into a storm of tears; to be driven back to the orphanage would be a relief. She was already late and it would be another half-hour or more before she was home. She sat on a bench facing the door so that she would see the doctor when he came, but he came unnoticed from one of the corridors at the back of the entrance hall. He paused before he reached her and gave her a long look; she was pretty enough to warrant it, and seen in profile her nose had a most appealing tilt … He spoke as he reached her. ‘The car’s just outside. It will be better if you carry her, I think; it wouldn’t do to wake her.’
They crossed the hall and he held the door for her and went ahead to open the door of the dark grey Rolls-Royce outside. She got in carefully and he fastened her safety-belt without disturbing the child, and then got in beside her, drove out of the forecourt and joined the stream of traffic in the street.
Lucy waited until they stopped in a traffic jam. ‘You said Sparrow Street, and it is, of course, only the staff and children use the Willoughby Street entrance.’
‘I see—and who uses the Sparrow Street door?’ He edged the car forward a few yards and turned to look at her.
‘Oh, the committee and visiting doctors and the governors—you know, important people.’
‘I should have thought that in an orphanage the orphans were the important people.’
‘They are. They’re awfully well looked after.’ She lapsed into silence as the big car slid smoothly ahead and presently stopped in Willoughby Street. The doctor got out and opened her door for her and she got out carefully. ‘Thank you very much for the lift, it was kind of you.’ She smiled up into his impassive face.
‘I’m coming in with you, I want to see the matron. Where do you live?’
‘Me? In Chelsea.’
‘I pass it on my way home. I’ll drop you off.’
‘I’ll be at least fifteen minutes …’
‘So shall I.’ They had gone inside and he indicated the row of chairs lined up against the wall of the small reception room. ‘Wait here, will you?’
He nodded to the nurse who came to meet them and walked off, leaving Lucy to follow her to the back of the building where the toddlers had their cots and where the sister-in-charge was waiting. It was all of fifteen minutes by the time Lucy had explained everything, handed over the now wakeful Miranda, and said goodnight.
‘Thanks for staying on over your time,’ Sister said. ‘I’ll make it up to you some time.’ She smiled nicely because Lucy was a good worker and didn’t grumble at the unending task of keeping the toddlers clean and fed and happy. We could do with a few more like her, she thought, watching Lucy’s slender shape disappearing down the corridor.
There was no sign of the doctor when Lucy got back to the reception-room. Perhaps she had been too long and he had gone without her, and she could hardly blame him for that—he had probably had a long and tiring day and was just as anxious to get home as she was. All the same, she sat down on one of the hard wooden chairs; there was no one else there, or she could have asked …
He came five minutes later, calm and unhurried, smiling genially, and accompanied by the matron. Lucy got to her feet and, rather to her surprise, was thanked for her afternoon’s duties; it was by no means an uncommon thing for her to take children to hospital to be examined, and she was surprised that anyone had found it necessary to thank her. She muttered politely, added a goodnight and followed the doctor out to his car.
‘Exactly where do you live?’ he enquired of her as he settled himself beside her.
She mentioned a quiet road, one of those leading away from the Embankment, and added, ‘It is very kind of you. I hope it’s not taking you out of your way?’
‘I live in Chiswick. Do you share a flat?’ The question was casual.
‘Me? No. I live with my parents …’
‘Of course, now I remember—is your father an archaeologist, the Gregory Lockitt?’ And when she murmured that he was, ‘I met your parents some time ago at a dinner party. They were just back from the Andes.’
‘That’s right,’ she agreed composedly, ‘they travel a good deal.’
‘But you prefer your orphanage?’ His voice was kindly impersonal.
‘Yes.’ She didn’t add to that, to explain that it was a job she had found for herself and taken on with the good humoured tolerance of her parents. She had been a disappointment to them, she knew that, although they had never actually said so; her elder sister, with a university degree and distinguished good looks, was personal assistant to the director of a City firm, and her younger sister, equally good-looking and chic with it, worked in one of the art galleries—moreover she was engaged to a young executive who was rising through his financial world with the ruthless intention of reaching the top before anyone else. Only Lucy, the middle sister and overshadowed by them both, had failed to be a success. There was no question but that they all loved her with an easygoing tolerance, but there was also no question that she had failed to live up to the family’s high standards. She was capable, sensible and practical and not in the least clever, and despite her gentle prettiness she was a shy girl. At twenty-five, she knew that her mother was beginning to despair of her marrying.
Dr Thurloe stopped the car before her home and got out to open her door, and she thanked him again. Pauline and Imogen would have known exactly what to say to make him interested enough to suggest meeting again, but she had no idea; the only thought in her head was that she wasn’t likely to see him again, and that almost broke her heart. She stared up into his face, learning it by heart, knowing that she would never forget it, still bemused by the surprise of loving him.
His quiet, ‘A pleasure, enjoy your evening, Miss Lockitt,’ brought her to her senses again, and she bade him a hasty goodnight and thumped the door knocker. He waited by his car until Alice, the housekeeper, opened the door, and then he got into the car and drove away. Perhaps I should have asked him in, reflected Lucy uneasily as she said hello to Alice.
‘And who was that now?’ asked Alice. ‘Nice car too. Got yourself a young man, love?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘Just a lift home. Is everyone in, Alice?’
‘In the drawing-room and ‘is nibs with them.’ She gave Lucy a motherly pat. ‘Best go and tidy yerself, love—they’re having drinks …’
Lucy went slowly upstairs to her room, showered and got into a wool dress, brushed out her hair and did her face. She knew her mother disliked her wearing the clothes she had worn at the orphanage, even though they were covered by an overall and a plastic apron. She didn’t hurry—there would just be time for a drink before dinner, and that meant that she wouldn’t have to listen to Cyril, Pauline’s fiancé, prosing about stocks