The trouble with a doctor’s surgery, she had thought more than once, was that there were always interruptions—which meant that inevitably you never had as much time as you thought you did.
Lara had returned from visiting a mother with her new baby at home, and was collecting together the cards for the afternoon surgery when the phone rang. Dr Cunningham was out on an emergency visit, and he was due to start surgery in ten minutes, and, what was more, Mrs Morgan was bound to complain loudly and bitterly if she was kept waiting!
Please don’t let it be a visit, she prayed, as she picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’
She almost dropped the receiver. She hadn’t heard the voice for seven years, and it had only spoken a few words to her, but those words were engraved on her memory as boldly as if they had been written in letters of fire—and just as memorable was the voice that had spoken them.
‘Hello?’ The voice repeated, sounding puzzled. ‘Is that Dr Cunningham’s surgery?’
‘Y-yes,’ stammered Lara, making a huge effort to pull herself together. ‘This is Dr Cunningham’s surgery—how may I help you?’
‘Who’s that?’ The voice sounded interested.
‘This is Lara.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘Lara King—the practice nurse and receptionist. Who’s speaking, please?’ She felt such a fraud as she asked the question, but imagine his horror if she’d suddenly said, ‘Hello, Nick.’
‘This is Nick—Dr Cunningham’s son. Is he there?’
‘I’m sorry, no. I’m afraid he’s out on a visit. Can I ask him to ring you?’
There was a pause. ‘No, I’ve got to go out now. Will you give him a message for me?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Just tell him that I’ll be home, would you? I’ll be home for Christmas.’
It was a pity that a whooping cough epidemic should coincide with the return of the prodigal son, thought Lara, a touch bitterly, as she pushed the wire trolley round the brightly lit supermarket. And poor Dr Cunningham had been rushed off his feet—it wasn’t good at his age. So what alternative did she have but to offer to do the shopping for him?
She put a packet of figs into the already loaded trolley and added one of dates for good measure. Dr Cunningham had invited her to join them for Christmas lunch—and then promptly asked if she’d mind cooking it!
‘Would you mind, my dear?’ he had asked tentatively. ‘He’s worked for so many Christmases, and so have I. I’d like to make this one to remember.’
Lara would have found the request difficult to resist anyway, but, coupled with the fact that she still had a ridiculously strong schoolgirlish crush on the man in question. . . Her smile was huge as she nodded her agreement.
Days began to be ticked off on the calendar.
On the twentieth of December, a baby almost died from the whooping cough and had to be admitted to the hospital as an emergency.
‘Baby Rawlins is touch and go,’ said Dr Cunningham, his face grave.
Mrs Rawlins’ husband was being flown home from his RAF base the following morning.
‘I’ll go and sit with his wife at the hospital,’ promised Lara.
Dr Cunningham’s eyes shone. ‘You’re a good girl, Lara,’ he said.
‘Nonsense,’ she said briskly, and began to button up her gabardine.
On the twenty-first, young Alicia le Saux was rushed to hospital with appendicitis and Mrs Donaldson discovered that she was pregnant. Lara was in surgery with Dr Cunningham when he announced the result of the urine test.
‘It’s positive,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’re going to have a baby.’
Lara had to provide wads of tissues for the woman to dry her eyes and blow her nose. At the end of surgery Dr Cunningham found a bottle of port waiting for him on the reception desk. The Donaldsons had been trying for a baby for over ten years.
On the twenty-second, a woman of twenty-four was recalled because her cervical smear showed that there had been pre-cancerous changes.
On the twenty-third there was a succession of sore throats, and so many parents who were anxious about the whooping cough brought their children in with non-existent ‘sniffles’ that Lara thought she would scream.
On the twenty-fourth, old Mr Parker finally died, after a long and debilitating illness. And Nick Cunningham arrived.
He had not been expected so early. Surgery had finished at midday, and Lara had offered to help make the house presentable. Dr Cunningham had a cleaner, but it was the little touches which made a house home, especially at Christmas, and Lara bustled around hanging holly, buying a tree to decorate with all the baubles which they’d fished out of the attic. She could see that Dr Cunningham was getting quite unusually excited.
She was standing on a chair, positioning the voileclad fairy on the top of the tree, when she heard the distant peal of a doorbell. She imagined it to be a patient, or a neighbour, but then she heard exclamations of obvious joy, and she knew that it was Nick.
It was not how she had planned it to be, their reunion. She had spent the afternoon in the kitchen, preparing a beef Wellington and making batch after batch of mince pies. Consequently, the heavy golden hair was drawn back in a severe ponytail, her un-made-up face was pink and shiny, and there was a smear of pastry on one cheek. Her jeans were faded and old, and a button of the old shirt she wore had come undone near the waist, showing a glimpse of summer-brown midriff.
She turned round just as he walked into the room, a few large flakes of snow glittering on the coalblack wavy hair, just as they had all those years ago. He was less tall than she remembered, but still a head above his father, and the hair now had the odd streak of silver-grey at the temples. The face too, was older, but even more handsome, if that were possible—the lines around the blue-grey eyes showed a new maturity.
He stood, framed in the oak doorway, staring at her, an unsure expression flitting across the craggy features.
And then he smiled, and it was like the sun coming out. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You must be. . .’
Her welcoming expression froze for a split second. ‘I’m Lara King,’ she replied calmly. ‘Your father’s nurse. We spoke on the phone.’
The smile widened. ‘Yes, of course. Pleased to meet you, Lara.’
She climbed down from the chair, moving a piece of tinsel away from the back of it, hoping that he wouldn’t notice her high colour.
Of course he wouldn’t remember her—why the hell should he? They hadn’t even been introduced, had they? And everyone said she didn’t look like the same girl any more. A three-minute dance with a fat and blushing schoolgirl nearly seven years ago hardly merited the description of something he would never forget, now did it?
Her smile had about a quarter of its usual
