these sandals on or don’t you?’
Susan’s expression was resigned, but she obediently pulled off her boot and slipped one of the gold-strapped sandals on to her foot.
‘Hmm, nice,’ she agreed critically, turning her foot from side to side. ‘How lucky we both take the same size.’ Then she tossed it off again, and reaching for her boot returned to the attack. ‘I should be careful if I were you anyway,’ she said seriously. ‘Barry was really mad last night, wasn’t he? Jealous as hell!’
‘I’m sure your mother wouldn’t approve of you using that kind of language!’ retorted Helen severely, hiding her unwilling anxiety in irritation, but Susan was not subdued.
‘You talk like an old maid sometimes, do you know that?’ she demanded. ‘Just because I’m trying to give you a piece of advice, you act like I was a schoolgirl trying to advise the teacher. Well, let me tell you, Helen, I know more about men than you do. You might be older than I am, but emotionally speaking, you’re not even in the running!’
Helen thrust the sandals into their box and held them out to the younger girl. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Take them. And stop trying to tell me how to run my life.’
Susan took the box and stood up. ‘All right,’ she said, moving her shoulders indifferently. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘Warn me?’ Helen couldn’t let that go, although she knew she would regret it later. ‘Warn me about what?’
‘Why, about getting involved with Morgan, of course.’
‘Getting involved with Morgan?’ echoed Helen in disbelieving tones. ‘I’m not getting involved with anyone—except Barry.’
‘But don’t pretend you wouldn’t like to,’ put in Susan infuriatingly. ‘You’re attracted to Morgan, aren’t you? But you’re wasting your time. He’s married already.’
‘I think you’d better go,’ said Helen, controlling her temper with difficulty. ‘And please don’t repeat what you’ve said to me to anyone. To anyone, do you hear?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Susan sniffed. ‘I won’t tell Barry, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’
‘I’m not afraid of anything,’ retorted Helen coldly, and led the way downstairs again herself.
Morgan and her parents were drinking coffee in the living room. Jennifer had returned to the study where she was doing her homework, and thankfully Susan went to find her, leaving Helen to face the others on her own. But at least she did not have the ignominy of feeling Susan’s eyes upon her at every turn, and she poured herself some coffee and seated herself almost unnoticed in the corner.
Morgan was talking about Africa, telling Mr Raynor about the tropical diseases he had to contend with in the course of his work and the advances which had been made in vaccination and inoculation. It was fascinating listening to him describing conditions in an African village, the contrasts between the youths who went to the city to get educated and their parents and grandparents who still lived by the tribal customs which had existed for hundreds of years. He talked of the hostility which still existed in some areas between the so-called white man’s medicine and the medicine men of the tribe, who used ritual magic and herbal remedies to effect their cures.
‘But do they get results?’ asked Mr Raynor smiling, as he tapped his pipe against his palm, and Morgan gave a rueful grin.
‘Sometimes,’ he conceded honestly. ‘I suppose faith has a lot to do with it, but occasionally some miraculous recovery comes to light. No one knows why. There are times when I’d say that by forcing a sick patient to drink some obnoxious mixture or applying a poultice made out of chicken feathers and God knows what else to an open wound would be fatal; but then I visit the village again and I find this chap going hunting with his brothers and I realise modern medicine has taken another backward step.’
‘It must be quite frustrating,’ said Mrs Raynor sympathetically, but Morgan shook his head.
‘Not frustrating, no. I’m always glad when a patient gets well, by whatever means. I think perplexed is a better word. I’d like to learn more about these primitive medicines, study them in depth.’ He paused, and Helen saw a strange expression cross his face. ‘But that’s not very likely, I’m afraid.’
‘No,’ Mr Raynor nodded. ‘I imagine these witch doctors guard their secrets closely.’
‘Yes,’ Morgan agreed, but Helen had the distinct impression that that was not what he meant at all.
Soon afterwards, he said he would have to be leaving, and Mrs Raynor took the opportunity to invite him for dinner on Tuesday evening.
‘Could we make that Wednesday or Thursday?’ he asked apologetically. ‘I—er—I have an appointment in London on Tuesday, and I don’t suppose I’ll be back much before ten.’
‘Of course.’ Mrs Raynor was eager to oblige. ‘Thursday, then. If that’s all right with you, Helen?’
Helen nodded. ‘Any night suits me,’ she shrugged, realising as she did so that she sounded offhand. But Susan’s words still lingered, and she half wished she didn’t have to see Morgan again until the day of the wedding.
Helen left her job at the hospital on Tuesday evening. She would be returning after her honeymoon, but it was good to feel herself free for almost three weeks. Not that she didn’t enjoy her work. She did. It gave her great satisfaction to know that she was helping someone recover the use of their limbs, particularly if the patient was a child or an elderly person who had given up hope of ever being able to walk again. But the quality of her work was demanding and this week before the wedding was demanding enough in itself.
Nevertheless, the following morning found her at a loose end, with her parents and Barry at work, and Jennifer in school. During the afternoon she planned to go to the flat she and Barry were going to lease and take along some of the household things they had collected over recent weeks, but the morning was fine and sunny and she didn’t much feel like applying herself to housework. Instead she took herself off into town, and in the paperback book department of W H Smith she encountered the one person she least wanted to meet.
‘Morgan!’ she said, rather dismayed, after practically walking into him round the end of one of the fixtures. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’
‘It’s my usual port of call on visits to England,’ he replied evenly, pushing a textbook on neural surgery back into the rack. ‘I always take a pile of books back with me.’
‘Yes,’ Helen nodded, folding her fingers firmly round the strap of her handbag. ‘Did you—er—did you have a good day in London?’
Morgan regarded her with a faintly mocking expression. ‘Do you really want to know? I got the impression you didn’t particularly want to meet me just now.’
‘Oh, no.’ Helen reddened. ‘It was just—I was surprised to see you, that’s all.’
Morgan inclined his head, and she moved jerkily away from him. Dear God, she thought sickly, what was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she stand near him without becoming overpoweringly conscious of his hard masculinity? Why did the very sight of him in his worn leather jacket and black suede pants affect her with something very like a physical shock when Barry never ever had
