had the appointment details for the meeting later this afternoon.
Yes. Four p.m. at the medical centre in the village of Braeburn. Only a short walk from the station, apparently. Across the square at the end of the high street and down the street. She couldn’t miss it but if she got as far as the village hall she needed to turn around. She’d be able to meet not only the nice-sounding doctor but the children and their grandmother.
Gathering her courage, Emma got herself and her belongings stowed into an eerily empty train carriage. Braeburn didn’t appear to be a very popular destination. With no one to distract her with conversation, there was plenty of time to think about what lay ahead in her immediate future.
That last addition of the grandmother to the interview panel was the one that made her a little uneasy. Her imagination could conjure up a fierce, elderly Scot with no trouble at all. Short and wiry, with a hairnet keeping the corrugated-iron waves of her hair in place and a disapproving glare that would miss nothing remotely unsuitable about an applicant.
She’d be the one to convince.
Emma rested her head back on the faded seat and watched green hills and paddocks and the occasional river drift past. Beautiful country. A long, long way from London and big hospitals and fear of what the new year might bring.
She couldn’t go back.
She had to get this job. It would be a reprieve from the fear. Time out. A family to spend Christmas with even, and wouldn’t that be magic?
A touch to her hair reassured her that the unruly curls were suitably restrained. How good was it that her hair had grown back so enthusiastically after all the chemo? It would have been better to have had the time to buy some new clothes, though. She didn’t have a skirt or dress to her name and, having lost so much weight, she was swimming in her jeans and pullover. Hardly the outfit to make much of an impression with but it was personality that mattered, wasn’t it?
And this Dr McAllister sounded perfectly nice, with his deep voice and broad Scottish accent. A bit brusque maybe. Possibly a little terse after she’d replayed the conversation in her head a few times but he’d definitely sounded keen.
Almost … desperate?
Maybe the children were little monsters that ate nannies for breakfast and the granny would be glaring at her from a corner and constantly criticising her every move. And the doctor would take one look at her and ask what on earth she was thinking—that she could look after his precious children when it was obvious how sick she was herself?
No. Emma slammed a mental door shut on her unfortunately vivid imagination.
Fate was bringing her here. It had been the first advertisement she’d seen and, when she’d rung, the phone had been answered virtually on the first ring. She hadn’t even had to queue for a train ticket. It felt like it was meant to happen.
She needed a bit of faith, that was all. Hardly surprising that that particular mental resource was somewhat depleted at the moment but it felt good to scrape a bit up and hang onto it.
Very good indeed.
It felt remarkably like hope.
The village was every bit as pretty as she had imagined with stone buildings and cobbled streets. Not that Emma had time to admire more than a passing impression because the train had been a bit late and now she had to hurry. That it was much darker for the time of day and probably a lot colder than London didn’t seem to matter when the brightly lit shop windows revealed colourful decorations already in place.
She found herself smiling when she hurried past a pub called simply The Inn, which had sprigs of holly on the door framing a handwritten sign that said, ‘There’s plenty of room.’ Maybe the innkeeper with the sense of humour was one of the group of people under the streetlamps, installing a massive Christmas tree in the village square that needed men with ropes and a lot of shouting in a brogue so thick it sounded like a foreign language.
Her heart sank, however, when she entered the medical centre and the grandmother of her imagination fixed her with a look that could probably strip paint.
‘D’ye have an appointment? The doctor’s no’ got time for extras unless it’s an emergency. Clinic hours are over.’
The bell on the door behind Emma clanged again before the grandmother had finished speaking and her attempt to decipher more than half the words she had just heard was interrupted by a woman’s voice.
‘I’ll take care o’ this, Eileen. We’re expecting Emma.’
Her jaw dropping, Emma turned to face an elegantly dressed and very beautiful older woman, who was smiling warmly. ‘I take it you are Emma?’
‘Um … yes. And you’re …?’
‘Catherine McAllister. Adam’s mother.’ She looked past Emma’s shoulder. ‘Is Adam in, Eileen?’
‘Aye. The wee bairns as well.’ The sniff was disapproving. ‘I’ve told the doctor it’s no’ a good idea, having bairns in there. They’ll break something. Or—’
‘Why don’t you head off early, Eileen?’ Catherine was still smiling. ‘I know how busy you must be at the moment. Isn’t there a choir practice this evening?’
‘Aye … well, if you’re sure, Mrs McAllister.’
‘I’m just sorry I won’t be here to hear all the Christmas carols.’
‘It’s tomorrow you leave, aye?’
‘Mmm. I hope so.’ She turned back to Emma. ‘Adam’s sister is having her first baby. In Canada.’
‘Oh … how exciting.’ Emma couldn’t miss the play of emotion on the older woman’s face. ‘She’ll be so happy to have you there. I … I lost my mum last year and I miss her all the time but that’s when I’ll miss her the most, I think.’
When she had a baby? If she ever had a baby would be more truthful. But she’d said too much already, hadn’t she? Maybe revealed too much as well, judging by the searching look she was getting. Emma bit her lip but Catherine was smiling. Her eyes were full of sympathy and the touch on Emma’s arm was more like a reassuring squeeze.
‘Come with me, Emma. We’ll go and find that son of mine.’
Could she leave her backpack and guitar in the waiting room? About to step away, Emma caught another glare from Eileen that was punctuated by another eloquent sniff. Hastily, she picked up her luggage and followed Catherine across the waiting room and through another door. She was still trying to readjust her mental image of the children’s grandmother and, because she wasn’t watching, the guitar was at enough of a sideways angle to catch on the door in front of her so she almost fell into what was obviously a consulting room.
The man, who had one hip perched on the edge of a large wooden desk, jerked his head in her direction. The two children, who were on the floor in the middle of a game that involved a stethoscope and bandages, looked up and froze.
There was an awkward silence and Emma could feel herself blushing furiously as she manoeuvred herself into the room. What had possessed her to bring such an unwieldy extra piece of luggage, anyway? Did she think she might go busking in Braeburn’s village square
