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'There's no reason why you should—at least not for me,' Anna assured him. 'Anyway, I promised Prue I'd go to the home to see Great-Nan. I go little enough, goodness knows, which, considering I'm in a caring job, is a disgraceful state of affairs!'

It was on the drive home that he told her about the party he and his father were giving in three weeks' time. 'We're inviting forty or so guests—some of them clients, some of them friends and their husbands, or wives, and partners. We very much hope—' he slowed at the roundabout '—that you and Mrs Gatton will come. Selfishly, I'm hoping that you'll come without a partner so that you and I can link up. My stock will go up a hundredfold with you at my side.'

'I think your stock is all right without any help from me.' Anna's mind went back to the afternoon at Mapletons' stand, when Alex had been hailed on all sides. 'But of course I'll come, just with Prue, if you like. I've no one special to bring along,' she added carefully, stamping Simon out of her thoughts.

Her formal invitation came next morning; so did Prue's. 'The Marriners give wonderful parties,' Prue said. 'I went to one the year before last. I think they asked me then because I'd spent a fair bit of money with them, and they hoped I'd keep it up. I suppose I have, to a certain extent, although my little lot must be very small beer to them. As for you, it's plain as can be that Alex wants to show you off.'

'I'm not his to show off, Prue. We settled that the other night, and now—' Anna turned up her fob watch and gasped '—I really must be off.' It was seven a.m. and she was on earlies. Flapping a hand at a perplexed-looking Prue, she bent to draw the bolts of the main front door.

The night report disclosed nothing untoward, and Anna had just distributed the patients' mail when the learner, May Fenn, came into the office to ask why Mrs Dunbavin had had a salpingo-oophorectomy.

'Why did she have to lose both ovaries—she's only twenty-eight, she'll never be able to have a family and she's married and everything?' May had chosen a bad time to ask questions—just before the round—but Anna did her best to explain, with one eye on the time.

'Mrs Dunbavin's main consideration is to stay alive, May. If you'd read her notes, which you obviously haven't, you'd have seen that she has an inoperable tumour of the breast. She has refused chemo or radiation, but having her ovaries removed will dry up her source of oestrogen. Without oestrogen, her tumour isn't likely to spread to other organs.'

'So, she'll be like a menopausal woman.'

'That's exactly what she'll be like.'

'Does she know that?'

'Of course. Mr Easter's explained it to her.'

'Does she mind?'

Anna held onto her patience with an effort. 'I'm quite sure she minded,' she said, 'having a growth in the first place, poor girl.'

'Yes, Sister... Sorry, Sister.' Not unduly chastened, May sped off to help Jean with back rubs, leaving Anna feeling guilty at having snapped at her. Teaching was fine when you had the time to do it, but today looked like being one of those days when absolutely nothing went right.

They were very much all right for Mrs Cole, however, for she was being discharged that afternoon and her son was fetching her. 'He won't know me without my bulge, Sister,' she chortled happily. 'I'll be glad when my stitches are out, though. I hope the district nurse won't forget.'

'She won't, Mrs Cole. We've let her know that you are in need of home nursing. She'll know exactly when to take your stitches out,' Anna assured her, going off to speak to Mrs Burnham, whose laparotomy had revealed the presence of a tubal infection which could be treated at home with penicillin, and attendance at Outpatients' Clinic. She, too, was being discharged that afternoon so there would be two beds free, which would be filled almost as soon as the revised list was in Miss Tell's hands.

Simon came to the ward just before lunch to have a brief word with the new patient, Anthea Gordon, who was having a reversal of sterilisation operation. He had learned from her GP that the original sterilisation— carried out in a Leeds hospital five years ago—had been performed by the clips method of blocking the tubes.

Mrs Gordon, who had divorced her first husband, was now married to a man who wanted a child by her... 'Which I want too,' she had told Simon in Outpatients, 'so what can you do for me?'

'I can't
promise
success, Mrs Gordon,' he had told her carefully. 'Much depends on the state of your uterine tubes when the clips are removed, and even if I can restore patency—get them working, in plain terms—I can't guarantee that you'll become pregnant, so it's an "iffy" situation.'

'I'll chance it—I'd like it done,' she had said, and now here she was, sitting up in bed in a strappy nightie, looking glamorous but anxious, too, as she listened carefully all over again to Simon's warnings not to expect too much.

'I hope it's a success,' Anna said when they were back in the office.

'The success rate for that type of microsurgery is around seventy per cent,' he remarked, 'but what I haven't yet warned her is that the risk of tubal pregnancy cannot be ruled out.'

'Must
you warn her?' Anna regretted the question almost before it was out of her mouth because, of course, he must. It was her right to know.

'I'm not,' he said in a cool voice, 'in the habit of deceiving my patients.'

'No, I know, I'm sorry.'

His head remained bent whilst he wrote in the notes, but he paid attention when she told him that she was moving Mrs Dunbavin to the top of the ward. 'I'm putting her in Mrs Cole's bed—I think she'll be happier there. The thing is that her present bed-neighbour, Mrs Robin, has her daughter in to see her most days.
She
brings her children in, and one of them is a baby in arms.

'Now, I know Mrs D. can't avoid seeing babies for the rest of her life but just at the moment, when she's feeling extra-sensitive, she can well do without having them thrust right under her nose.'

'Good thinking.' Simon looked up briefly, then went on writing.

'It must be awful, at her age, to have to accept the fact that you'll never be able to bear a child,' Anna said, half to herself.

'Some women wouldn't find that too much of a penance.' Simon cursed as his pen ran out. He reached for a ballpoint from Anna's tray, whilst she stared at the top of his head, wishing—unreasonably—that he'd be more conversational and wanting to make him speak. Wanting, too, to provoke and prod him, she said quietly over the 'desk:

'You say that so glibly... You say it as though dealing with women's reproductive organs makes you privy to other things—to what goes on higher up, in their heads and their hearts. Women, even if they don't actually
want
a child, like to know they're capable of having one. Not to be so capable makes them lose their self-esteem.'

He looked up then; looked electrified; looked as though he was about to slap her—or at least slap her down—but all he said was, quite quietly with his eyes on her face which had flushed carnation-pink, 'I do talk to women, Anna, and sometimes they tell me what's in their heads
and
their hearts. I'm privileged in that respect.'

'Yes,' was the only word she could manage to breathe out of her mouth.

'So, what's all this about? I thought you and I were on the same side?'

'Well, yes... I mean, we have to be.'

He rose to his feet, still looking at her, and instantly she was under his spell again. It was like moving towards him without moving at all; it was like falling into him.

Through the open door came sounds which she heard as from a great distance—the clashing of bowls in the sluice opposite, the smothered 5 laugh of a nurse, the squeaking of rubber wheels in the corridor outside. She was holding her breath; she was praying, too, that no one would come bursting in.

He was going to say something important, she was sure—she could tell it by his stance, by his mouth which, very slightly open, was showing the tips of his teeth. She could tell it by his stillness, by his awareness of her—which had come to the fore again—and she dared not move so much as an eyelash in case she put him off.

When the door was pushed wider—when Miss Tell .came in—Anna could have screamed for it broke the moment, which she was quite sure would never come again. She even fancied that Simon looked relieved as he moved towards the door, and went out after greeting Miss Tell, commenting fulsomely on the brilliance of the morning and how good it made one feel.

Miss Tell had come to ask about the bed state. Well, of course she had—what else? But to come then.. .to come then... Why couldn't she have waited another ten minutes, or been tripped up on the stairs? The revised bed list was handed over, together with the nursing report of the night before, after which Miss Tell did a short ward round, stopping to chat with one or two patients who were being discharged and personally supervising Mrs Dunbavin's move up to the top of the ward.

Mrs Gordon's operation, on Monday, was deemed to be a success. Meg was full of praise for Simon. 'He did a great job,' she said. 'The distal and proximal parts of her tubes were good and healthy. He anastomosed the cut ends, working with a microscope. You should have seen him stitch—he has wonderful fingers.'

'Yes,' Anna said, then added, 'He must have,' and tried to hide her blush by turning towards the cabinet and fiddling with the notes.

Miss
Amy Benson
looked older than her fifty-nine years—being plump and grey-haired and squeezed into a suit too hot for the sweltering morning. She greeted Anna with a tight little smile and eyes that missed nothing at all.

'I felt it would be pleasant to meet,' she said, stirring brown sugar into her cup.

'Yes, I agree.' Anna's hair hid her face as she stowed her shopping under the table, being careful of Amy's feet.

They were in the Primula Cafe in Ship Street which, although self-service, had cloths on its tables and wheel-back chairs, whilst its
customers were the skirted, permed-hair type with supermarket shopping bags.

It was after the matter of Mrs Paterson's ring had been discussed and got out of the way, and after Anna had been thanked all over again for her help the week previously, that Miss Benson, staring hard at her across the round wooden table, made the observation that she looked very young—'to be a ward sister, I mean. I'd expected someone in their thirties, at least.'

'I'm not so very far off thirty,' Anna smiled, aware that in her best blue jeans and white poplin top she looked far younger than she did in her sister's garb. 'I dare say I look older on the job, when my worries are weighing me down!'

'But you like it, do you, and you're settled?'

'I do and I am.' Anna's answer was as direct as the question, and even held some of its sharpness. 'I'm in the speciality of nursing that interests me and I have my
own home—a flat in my grandmother's house—so I'm suited all round.'

'How do you get on with Mr Easter?' was the question that came next—one that Anna had been expecting, Simon being their common concern. Even so, she was careful how she answered.

'Oh, all right, I think,' she said, 'but, as you know, consultants aren't very often on the wards—not on a day-to-day basis—so you probably see more of him than I do, working from his home.'

'That's true, of course—' Miss Benson cut her custard tart in two '—and we get on well now that I'm used to working for a younger man. The patients all like him— I wondered if they would, after Mr Duran. He was a very hard act to follow, eminent in his field. Still, it's three years since the change-over and the private list has doubled.'

'Which speaks for itself,' Anna said drily. Miss Benson conceded this, even going on to say that he was a very attractive man. Anna nodded, unable to speak, as some of her poise took flight. Amy Benson didn't seem to notice, however—she was too involved in brushing crumbs off the front of her blouse—and when she next spoke, it was to swerve the talk a little in a very surprising way.

'He operated on my friend at the end of June,' she said. 'Imogen Rayland. You'll remember her, of course.. .had her bladder neck lifted. I visited her once in hospital, but you were off duty, I think.'

'I didn't realise you knew Miss Rayland.' Anna kept her voice level.

'Oh, yes, we met at about the time Mr Duran retired. I started going to evening classes then to take my mind off things. We met there, doing pottery, and afterwards I used to see her riding out at Haverleigh, which is where I live. I've got a house at the foot of the Downs. She keeps house for the Marriners—lives in—but you'll know that, won't you?'

Anna met Amy's gaze, fully aware that she was being sounded out. Oh, well, so what? She'd nothing to hide. 'I've met her at the house,' she said, 'when I've been with Alex. I like her—she seems very nice, and she was a good patient too.'

'She's got too fond of that little boy,' Amy burst out. 'When Alex Marriner remarries, which he may, she's going to feel usurped. His wife might not want her around, which would mean that her home would be gone as well. Of course she could always come and live with me. I've assured her of that.'

She's fishing, Anna thought, trying to find out how things are between Alex and I. Well, I'm not going to tell her—she's practically a stranger and, even if she were not, it wouldn't be fair on Alex. If Imogen Rayland feels insecure she must take it up with him. So all she said was, 'She shares Tom's passion for horses, doesn't she? I can't honestly see either Alex or his father treating her other than fairly. They all get on so well together— at least, that's the impression I get.'

Miss Benson grunted, but was otherwise silent so perhaps even she could recognise when a door was being firmly closed in her face. She took it in good part, though, and when she next spoke it was to remark that Imogen was sheer poetry on a horse.

'I understand she's been riding all her life,' Anna said, responding thankfully to the welcome change of tack. 'Do you ride?' she asked Amy and was rewarded by a broad grin.