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Nothing Left to Give
Caroline Anderson
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
THE surgery was modern, purpose-built and a huge improvement on her last place of work. Instead of a tatty, litter-strewn pavement and a door straight off the street, the path from the car park to the entrance led through a landscaped garden filled with carefully tended roses, and the air was heavy with their scent.
In the distance Beth could hear farm machinery—haymaking? Probably not; it was the middle of September. Harvesting, then? She didn’t even know that much about the countryside, and yet here she was, in Barnham Market in Suffolk, about to be interviewed for a part-time temporary job that she wasn’t even sure she wanted.
She stifled a disbelieving laugh. She didn’t really know what she was doing there at all—except that she had no job now, and this would at least give her the chance to find out if she liked living in the country, by no means a foregone conclusion since she had never done it before.
In fact her total contact with the country consisted of a few picnics in the company of a load of townies who knew no more about it than she did!
She sighed and locked the car. Oh, well, she was here now; she might as well have the interview.
The interior of the practice was light, airy and filled with plants, a far cry from the last place with its dreary rooms and scuffed lino floors. Here, rich blue-grey carpet tiles covered the floor in the reception area, and the chairs looked comfortable, grouped around a big table stacked neatly with magazines from Country Living to Farmer’s Weekly. There were two women sitting in the waiting-room, both obviously pregnant, and a toddler under a table chattering happily to a big yellow teapot. There was probably an ante-natal clinic going on.
She went up to the glass hatch into the reception office and smiled at the pretty middle-aged receptionist. ‘Hello, I’m Beth Turner—I’ve got an interview at three with Dr Pendragon.’
Oh, yes—take a seat, would you? Dr Pendragon will be back in a minute—he’s just had to go out on a call. He shouldn’t be long. The nurse’ll be free soon.’
She went obediently and sat down, among the pregnant women and the scattered toys, and pondered her fate.
Could be worse, she thought as she eyed the child. London had been, after all. Nothing, but nothing could be worse than that—the incessant traffic, the noise, the smell—really, she thought, you’d imagine you’d get used to it after all these years, but no. Not her, at any rate. She still loathed the noises, and as for the traffic fumes ——
‘Read.’
She blinked. The toddler pushed the book into her hand, climbed on to her lap and waited expectantly, his grubby cherub’s face turned up to hers. A familiar pang shot through her, but she ruthlessly ignored it.
‘No, darling—–’
She turned to the mother. ‘It’s all right—really. I don’t mind.’
‘Are you sure?’
She nodded, and the little boy pushed the book at her again. ‘Read!’
‘Say please.’
‘Peese.’
She dredged up a smile and opened the book. ‘Once upon a time, there was a little boy called Thomas —’
Me Thomas.’
She looked at him. ‘Are you? Isn’t that funny, both of you called Thomas!’
He plopped his thumb in his mouth and nodded, snuggling back down against her, and she turned back to the text again. She was barely started when a nurse appeared at her elbow.
‘Miss Turner? I’m Julie Rudd, the practice nurse. Would you like to come through to my room and we
