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discussed the psychiatric aspects of the illness and the pros and cons of various approaches for a while, then moved on to talk about the clinics run in the surgery, health-care screening and preventative medicine.

      Then, while Dr Armstrong went out on a call, Dr Glover showed her round the practice premises briefly before showing her to the door.

      ‘We’ll be in touch, my dear,’ he said with a reassuring smile. ‘And may I apologise for my colleague? He’s inclined to be a little blunt. He also finds it rather difficult to come to terms with the idea that some women have to work for a living.’

      He patted her hand, and her mouth curved automatically at the avuncular twinkle in his eye.

      ‘Please don’t worry,’ she assured him. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

      Summoning a confident smile, she turned towards her car, just as a young lad came running up the path clutching a blood-soaked rag round his hand.

      ‘Martin—what’s the problem?’ Dr Glover asked.

      ‘Bloody band-saw—my hand slipped. It’s gone up between my fingers …’

      He swayed, and Cathy grabbed him, propping him against her and wrapping her arm firmly round his waist. ‘In you come—don’t worry, we’ll soon have you sorted out,’ she reassured automatically.

      She supported him into the treatment-room off the hallway, and while Dr Glover scrubbed his hands she took away the rag and replaced it with a sterile pad. ‘It’s still welling slightly, but it seems to be slowing,’ she told the other doctor.

      He lifted off the pad, turned the hand this way and that and then smiled at the patient.

      ‘Just a few stitches and a week or so off work, and you’ll be right as rain. You were lucky, Martin.’

      He swallowed. ‘Doesn’t feel all that lucky,’ he said with a weak attempt at a laugh.

      Dr Glover infiltrated it with local anaesthetic, and sorted out a couple of packets of sutures. ‘Done much of this sort of thing?’ he asked Cathy quietly.

      ‘A fair bit when I was in Casualty. Friday night and Saturday morning there’s a lot of soft-tissue repair work!’

      Dr Glover chuckled. ‘I’ll let you do it while I watch. My eyesight isn’t what it ought to be, and Max is out on a call. Do you mind?’

      Cathy paused. She ought to be getting back for Stephen, but he was with his grandmother and they would be fine together. She smiled. ‘Of course not.’

      Compared with some of the injuries inflicted by bottles and knives that she had dealt with routinely, Martin’s wound was child’s play, and in no time she had it sutured and bandaged, and they were seeing him off armed with painkillers.

      She was just getting into her car when a big Mercedes swished into the car park and Max got out.

      ‘Good lord, what happened to you?’ he asked, and she followed the direction of his eyes to see blood smeared all over the front of her jacket.

      ‘Oh! I didn’t realise—someone came in with a cut hand, and I sutured it.’

      ‘You sutured it? Where was John?’

      ‘Dr Glover? He was there, but he said his eyesight wasn’t too good and you were out——’

      There’s nothing wrong with his eyesight!’ Max said wryly. ‘Crafty old devil. I expect he just wanted to see you in action. Did you pass?’

      Cathy thought back to Dr Glover’s praise when she had finished. ‘I’m afraid I may well have done.’

      ‘Afraid?’ His brows quirked. ‘Why should you be afraid?’

      She shrugged and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I rather had the feeling you wanted me to fail,’ she said candidly.

      A lesser man would have blushed. Max Armstrong threw back his head and laughed. It infuriated her.

      ‘Well? Didn’t you?’ she persisted.

      ‘Oh, no, Dr Harris. I may not want you as a partner, but it’s nothing to do with your ability as a doctor——’

      ‘Just my ability as a woman,’ she finished for him, and then flushed as he ran his eyes assessingly over her soft curves, lingering momentarily on the middle button of her blouse as it strained slightly against the fabric.

      ‘Oh, no, I’m sure your ability as a woman is unquestionable,’ he said softly. ‘It’s about you as a mother that I have my reservations.’ His eyes flicked back to hers. ‘Au revoir, Dr Harris.’

      ‘Don’t you mean goodbye?’ she asked sharply, stung by his criticism and disconcerted by her reaction to his lazy scrutiny.

      ‘No—no, as you realise I’m not in favour of your appointment, but I have no illusions. We need another woman doctor, and if John wants you to join the practice he’ll ask you, and guess who’ll end up picking up the slack? I suppose it could be worse—at least as a widow you’re unlikely to saddle us with the burden of your maternity leave.’

      He touched his fingers to his temple in an insolent little salute, and strode past her into the surgery, leaving her quivering with anger and frustration.

      ‘Well, damn you, Dr Armstrong!’ she gritted, slamming the car into gear and screeching out of the car park, spraying gravel all over the front of his Mercedes. ‘Arrogant pig!’

      She raved for a few minutes as she threaded her way through the little town, then when she reached the outskirts she pulled over into a lay-by and poured herself a drink of ice-cold orange from a flask she had packed earlier, giving herself a good talking-to before setting course for home.

      Her temper slowly cooling, she looked around her. The countryside was beautiful, softly rolling hills, a gentle patchwork of farmland stretching away as far as the eye could see, and here and there a stonebuilt farmhouse nestled in a little cluster of barns and outbuildings.

      It was the same stone that was very much in evidence in the little town houses, too, of course, as well as in the grander homes in the area. She glanced across the road. Set well back on the other side behind a low stone wall sat a lovely old house, roses and clematis tangling around the upper windows, a Virginia creeper smothering the honey-coloured stone, and she gazed longingly at it for a moment before restarting the car and pulling away.

      What it must be like to have roots, to buy a house and plant climbing roses and know you’d still be there to see them grow in happy profusion all the way up to the roof. Perhaps, if she got the job, she’d be able to afford to buy a little cottage—nothing like that beautiful old house, but even a terraced house would have a wall she could grow a rose up—unless Max Armstrong had his way.

      It was after six when she arrived at her mother-in-law’s house, and Stephen rushed to greet her, his eyes alight.

      ‘Mummy!’ he yelled. ‘Come and see—we made a cake and Granny let me decorate it! See!’ He grabbed her by the hand and towed her into the kitchen.

      There, resplendent on a fine bone-china plate, was a ghastly puddle of chocolate smothered in sticky Smarties.

      ‘Oh, my goodness!’ she exclaimed, and winked at her mother-in-law over Stephen’s head. ‘What a wonderful cake!’

      ‘Do you want a bit?’

      ‘Yes, please, that would be lovely, darling.’

      Joan Harris eyed her thoughtfully, then put the kettle on. ‘Cup of tea, I think, to go with it. Stephen, why don’t you go and put your pictures in Mummy’s car while we wait for the kettle to boil?’

      He picked up an enormous stack of colourful daubs and zoomed out of the kitchen making racing-car noises. Cathy sighed. ‘Has he been all right?’

      ‘He’s been fine,’ Joan assured her soothingly. ‘How

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