Caroline Anderson - Practice Makes Perfect

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Cover

Title Page Practice Makes Perfect Caroline Anderson www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

As THE taxi-driver stacked the last of her cases on the step Lydia gave him a weary smile and an excessively generous tip, and then watched him out of sight.

Then, and only then, did she allow her gaze to wander lovingly over the familiar contours of the warm red-brick Georgian house.

Home.

She thought she had never been so glad to be back. In the raw wetness of a blustery February afternoon, after a horrendous flight from Calcutta with a long unscheduled stop in Zurich for emergency engine repairs, Lydia felt the icy blast of the wind clean through to her bones, and welcomed it.

A hot bath and a long sleep were definitely what the doctor ordered, she thought with a wry grin, and, slipping her key into the lock, she turned it and leant against the door. Nothing happened. With a slight frown she tried the key again and heard the lock turn, but still the door held firm.

‘Funny,’ she muttered. ‘It must be bolted. Wonder why?’

Abandoning her luggage, she went round the side of the big house and made her way to the kitchen door, casting a critical eye over the garden as she went. What she saw made her frown again, but a sudden slashing downpour worthy of April dragged her attention from the overrun herbaceous border to the more immediate problem of finding a way in—and fast!

Once again, though, she found herself thwarted, and, shivering down into the inadequate layers of her ancient mac, she glared at the door and worked her way back to the front door again, ignoring the plants that thrashed her legs with drenching regularity.

What was going on?

The surgery was in darkness, and peering in through the windows told her nothing—nothing, that was, that she didn’t already know, in other words, Gramps was nowhere to be seen, there was nobody manning the surgery and she was getting wetter by the minute.

One last hope remained, and, tackling the sodden borders again, she struggled round to the other side and rattled the door of the conservatory.

Joy! It creaked open, and then slammed shut with a crash as a gust of wind caught it and snatched it out of her hand.

Breaking the sudden silence that followed, the sound of the rain pelting down on to the glass roof and gurgling in the gutters only served to soothe away the feeling of uncertainty that Lydia experienced.

The wicker rocker was where she had expected to find it, a little damp because of the time of year but still offering comfort to the travel-weary. Snuggling into its lumpy old cushions, she let her eyes drift shut and settled down to wait for Gramps.

Sam gathered up his bag, slammed the car door and made a run for the house, letting himself in by the side-door. He shed his trench coat on the way up to his fiat, and hung it over the bath to drip while he filled the kettle and hunted in the fridge for something quick and easy to eat before evening surgery.

While the kettle boiled he munched on a cold tandoori chicken leg and replayed the messages on his answer-phone.

Mrs Jacobs was wondering if he could fit her in tonight because her waterworks were giving her trouble again and she didn’t think she should wait until Monday; Judith, the district nurse, had flu and would be off for the next few days; the village shop had his order ready and could he go down and collect it before five-thirty—answer: no, because it was now ten past and he had evening surgery in twenty minutes; and young David Leeming had cut his hand and his mother didn’t know if it needed stitching and should she take him along to the hospital or would Dr Davenport be able to deal with it? Dr Davenport never did find out what she had decided, because she was still procrastinating when the tape ran out.

He rang Judith, told her to stay in bed, drink plenty and take paracetomol QDS, which got him a flea in his ear for waking her up to tell her something so obvious. He apologised meekly, promised to call in the morning and hung up, a frown creasing his brow.

With the practice running at full stretch, half the village in the grip of a vile flu bug and the other half falling over on the slush and sustaining fractures, sprains and other less serious injuries in addition to the usual work-load, the very last thing Sam needed was Judith out of the running.

He went into the bathroom, changed places with his mac and showered briskly, towelling himself roughly dry in the kitchen as he made a coffee and rummaged in the fridge again. Coming up with a yoghurt two weeks past its sell-by date, the curled remains of a quiche and a flaccid lettuce, he opted for safety and put the last two bits of bread into the toaster, hung up the towel and dressed quickly.

Unfortunately the toast got stuck. Cursing fluently and sucking his burned fingertips, he opened the window and chucked the burnt offerings out into the rain-swept night, and slammed the window back down unnecessarily hard. It had probably been mouldy, anyway, he thought with weary resignation.

The phone rang—Mrs Leeming had decided that Dr Davenport should be given the dubious privilege of sewing up young David, and she would be bringing him in to the surgery. Would that be all right?

‘Fine. I’ll see when I can fit you in,’ he said a trifle abruptly, and hung up, eyes scanning the kitchen for anything else to eat. He really should have remembered about the village shop. There was nothing fit for human consumption in the entire place—in fact, he doubted that the mice would bother with half of what was left. He hoped it wasn’t an omen—it was his weekend on call.

Giving food up as a bad job, he downed his coffee, made another one and took it downstairs with him.

As usual, going into the consulting-room restored his sense of balance, and he sat in the old leather chair, propped his feet on the edge of Harry Moore’s desk and sighed contentedly.

He had never meant to be a country GP. Hospital medicine—probably cardiology, or neurology, or one of the other prestigious branches—had beckoned, until a chance comment by his father one day had prompted him to investigate the possibilities.

They had been arguing, as usual, about the benefits of education and informed opinion, and his father, one of the old school, who felt that the patient should be kept as ignorant as was humanly possible of the workings of his own body, had turned to Sam with a disgusted snort and told him that the next thing would be that he’d be going into general practice.

Sam had smiled grimly, congratulated his father on an accurate character assessment for once in his life, and stormed out of the prestigious Harley Street consulting-rooms with his pride intact and the seeds of revenge burning in his mind.