And Daughter Makes Three

He was right beside her now, just inches away, and he paused and lifted a hand.

‘You’ve got a crumb on your lip,’ he murmured, and she felt his fingertip like a butterfly’s wing against her mouth, easing away the crumb. It lingered, just a heartbeat longer than was necessary, and suddenly the butterfly’s wing burned against her skin.

Fire shot through her, and as their eyes locked for a long, aching moment she wondered if he was going to kiss her. Then his hand dropped, and with a muffled sigh he opened the door and was gone.

Robert wasn’t enjoying this telephone call, but it had to be made. However, he didn’t even try to keep the hard edge out of his voice. ‘I thought I made it perfectly clear that during the school holidays you wouldn’t entertain your lovers.’

‘Oh, Robert, for God’s sake, it was New Year’s Eve! Everybody entertains!’

‘I didn’t,’ he growled. ‘I was at work, earning your maintenance.’

‘Jane’s maintenance,’ his ex-wife reminded him with a bitter cut to her voice. ‘If you remember you declined to support me.’

Robert sighed. Not this again. He refused to get drawn in. ‘She tells me they were “doing drugs”.’

‘What a revolting expression, darling! Just a little smoke—’

‘I don’t care how you phrase it, Jackie, I am not having my daughter exposed to drugs and debauchery!’

There was a mock sigh from the other end. ‘Here we go—trotting out the moral outrage. Just because you don’t know how to enjoy yourself any more—’

‘I don’t consider getting drunk and smoking cannabis with a lover in front of my daughter enjoying myself, and I’m appalled that you should. I’m sorry, Jackie, but you’ve gone too far this time. Jane’s living with me now, for good. I’ll contact my solicitor and sort out visitation rights, but she’s slept the night in your home for the last time.’

He could feel the tension coming off her. ‘Robert, darling, you’re overreacting! I promise it won’t happen again—’

‘No, it won’t. I’ll arrange to collect all her things this weekend—’

‘But Robert, please, think about it! You can’t just do this—’

‘I can and I am. You’ve had plenty of chances, Jackie.’

‘But the maintenance …’

His hand tightened on the receiver and the plastic creaked ominously. ‘To hell with the maintenance. As you’ve just pointed out, it wasn’t for you anyway, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t suffer.’

He cradled the poor unfortunate receiver with more force than was necessary and flexed his fingers absently. He must be mad. How was he going to look after Jane? She had no friends in the area, and he was working all day and often at the weekends.

Had he been hasty?

He rammed his fingers through his hair and swore, softly and comprehensively. Would it never end?

He heard a sound behind him and turned his head slowly to see his daughter, clad in her nightshirt, leaning against the doorpost and eyeing him warily as he sprawled in the big old chair.

‘Mum?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I’ve just told her you’re living with me now.’

Jane hovered, chewing her lip unhappily. ‘Are you sure you want me?’ she asked tentatively. ‘I make your life so complicated.’

He couldn’t deny it. His life had been complicated by her presence ever since she had been conceived fourteen years before, when he was just a green medical student with more hormones than sense, but want her? Oh, yes …

He held out his arms. ‘Come here, sweetheart.’

She watched him for a second, then shrugged away from the doorpost and crossed to him, curling up on his lap the way she had as a little girl, her head nestled on his shoulder, her fragrant hair tickling his nose, her light frame angular now and leggy like a foal’s.

He snuggled her deeper into his arms, rested his chin against her head and sighed. ‘Love you, JJ.’

‘Love you too, Dad,’ she mumbled, and he felt her slim arms creep round his chest and squeeze.

Anger rose in him, anger at his ex-wife for so callously and selfishly following her own path to the detriment of Jane’s happiness, anger too at her money-grubbing plea about the maintenance.

‘Don’t be angry with her, Dad. She can’t help it. It’s just the way she is.’

He sighed and stroked the sweetly scented hair. ‘It just makes me angry when she hurts you.’

Jane sat up on his lap and shook her head. ‘She doesn’t hurt me.’

‘She disappoints you.’

Jane nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what? Not choosing my mother more carefully?’ She ruffled his hair affectionately. ‘Don’t be silly. Are you going to work?’

‘I have to. I’ve got a new registrar and she got flung in a bit at the deep end yesterday.’

‘Mmm. Frankie. I like her; she’s got nice eyes.’

His mouth quirked in a fleeting smile. ‘Yes—yes, she has. She’s probably got bags under them by now. I’d better go and give her the day off, I think.’

He patted Jane’s shoulder, and she slid off his lap and stretched, her nightshirt rising up to show endless skinny legs. She’s grown even more, he realised with a start, and she’s turning into a woman. Dear God, can I cope?

He stood up and hugged her briefly, dropped a kiss on her soft hair and let her go. ‘Will you be all right?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Dad, for God’s sake! I got here from London all right.’

‘Yes, well, we won’t talk about that. There’s food in the fridge and Mrs Bailey will be in later to clean up a bit and cook supper for us.’

‘I could do that.’

He chuckled. ‘Jane, when you were last here a week ago you couldn’t even make your own bed. I think we’ll let Mrs Bailey do it—maybe she’ll teach you how to cook if you ask her nicely.’

Jane rolled her eyes again. ‘Dad, I know how to cook. What do you think Mum eats in the holidays when her boyfriends aren’t allowed to take her out for dinner?’

He smiled, but inwardly he seethed again that she should be so cynical so young. Damn Jackie. When he caught up with her he’d have a few choice words to say, and out of JJ’s earshot, too, so he didn’t have to pull his punches.

‘I’ll ring you later.’

‘Daddy, I’ll be fine.’

He grinned at her. ‘OK; love. Take care.’

‘You too.’ She reached up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. ‘Have a good day. Say thank you to Frankie for me for covering for you.’

Frankie was shattered.

It was easy enough to keep up the cheerful, determined ‘I can do it’ front while Robert was around. When she was on her own, however, doubts began to assail her.

His praise on her first day had helped enormously, but all the time she was working she was desperately conscious of being under scrutiny. Not that that mattered. She didn’t worry about being watched—it was a valuable safety net for the patients during her learning process—but she was beginning to wish she hadn’t made the suggestion about being on trial.

After less than a week she was finding the process unbelievably tiring, and every time he moved out of sight her cheery smile slipped.

Apparently it didn’t go unnoticed. She was sitting in the staff coffee-lounge one lunchtime after a gruelling clinic that had had all the subtlety of a finals viva, sipping strong coffee and chewing methodically but without enthusiasm on a Danish pastry, when a shadow fell across her lap.

‘Mind if I join you?’

She looked up to find a man of about her own age, dressed in theatre pyjamas, his dark hair rumpled and untidy, a cautious half-smile on his generous mouth.

‘Do,’ she answered. He looked friendly and approachable and not about to pounce, she thought with relief. She was too damn tired and strung out to deal with Tarzan today.

‘You’re new, aren’t you?’ he asked, settling himself down with his anti-static boots propped on the table and the coffee-cup balanced on his lap.

‘Yes. I’ve been here since Monday.’

His grey eyes assessed her thoughtfully and the cautious smile touched his lips again. ‘Were you tired when you arrived, or has this place got to you already?’

She laughed. ‘A bit of each. I did a silly thing. I talked myself into a job on a trial basis, and now I feel I can’t breathe spontaneously without it being noted down.’

He chuckled. ‘You’re Robert Ryder’s junior reg, aren’t you? I gather he’s excellent.’

‘Yes, he is. Rather too excellent. The shortfall is all the more obvious,’ she said with wry self-mockery.

The young doctor laughed softly and leant forward, his hand outstretched. ‘I’m Gavin Jones—Oliver Henderson’s junior reg.’

She shook the firm, dry hand. ‘Frankie Bradley.’

‘Frankie—that’s unusual.’

‘Frances really,’ she said with a little shudder.

Gavin smiled. ‘Frances is fine but Frankie suits you better. So—you’re on trial. Wow. I remember when I made a foul-up as a houseman and Ross Hamilton came down on me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t breathe after that either without him watching me!’

‘What did you do?’

‘Took out an appendix on a girl with Munchausen’s—but you’ll be safe there. It doesn’t happen in orthopaedics. Either it’s broken or it isn’t!’

She chuckled. ‘I hope you’re right. I’ll probably end up recommending arthroscopy on someone’s knee when there’s nothing at all wrong with it.’

He drained his coffee-cup and put it down on the table. ‘Um—I don’t suppose you fancy a drink tonight?’

The idea was suddenly immensely appealing. ‘That would be lovely,’ she told him, a smile softening her tired eyes.

‘Seven? I’ll pick you up—I take it you’re living in?’

She nodded wryly. ‘Are you?’

‘For my sins. I’m only just back here—I’ve been away for a while as a registrar in Cambridge—and I haven’t got a flat sorted out yet. I don’t think it’ll be long, though. Those rooms are the pits.’

She laughed with him, and watched as he left the room. She was still smiling as her bleeper went, and with a sigh she got up and went over to the phone.

‘Dr Bradley,’ she told the switchboard.

‘Putting you through,’ the voice replied, and suddenly there was a young, hesitant girl on the line.

‘Um—is that Frankie?’

‘Yes, it is. Is that Jane Ryder?’

‘Yeah—listen, can you do me a favour? It’s my father’s birthday today and I’m cooking him a special meal tonight, and I thought it would be nice if you could join us. It’d make it more of a celebration, somehow, and give me a chance to thank you for bailing Dad out so he could fetch me from the station and bring me home. So,’ she said, all in a rush and running out of breath, ‘will you come?’

She sounded so hopeful, and Frankie didn’t have the heart to disappoint her. Besides which, it would be an ideal opportunity to get to know her enigmatic and very reserved boss a little better. She could always put Gavin off for another time.

‘Yes, of course I’ll come.’

‘Are you sure? It’s probably the last thing you want to do—’

‘Nonsense,’ Frankie interrupted. ‘I’ll look forward to it. What time?’

‘Seven-thirty? Oh, and do you like chicken curry?’

‘Ah. Um, Jane, I’m vegetarian.’

There was a horrified silence. ‘So I guess that means you don’t like chicken,’ she said eventually.

‘Look, if it messes things up for you I don’t need to come, Jane.’

‘But I want you to!’ the girl wailed.

‘Then I will. Don’t worry about feeding me—I can have all the accompaniments.’

‘Oh. Well, I could do you some veg in a curry sauce—would that do?’

‘That would be lovely,’ she said firmly. ‘Don’t worry about me; cook what your father likes. It’s his birthday. How do I get there?’

Jane gave her the directions—somewhat haphazard, but hopefully she could unravel them in the dark.

‘What’s the phone number, in case I get lost?’

Jane rattled off the number, then added, ‘By the way, don’t tell him—it’s a surprise.’

It was raining, just to add insult to injury. Gavin had been understanding—to a point. ‘Had a better offer?’ he’d ribbed gently.

‘I’m sorry,’ she’d apologised. ‘Perhaps another time?’

His smile had been wry. ‘Yeah—maybe. Have a good evening.’

She felt she’d disappointed him, but there was no point in encouraging him if he had any ideas about their relationship. He was a nice man, but he didn’t do anything for her—unlike Robert—

‘Damn!’ She slithered to an undignified halt and reversed back, peering at the road sign. Was this it? No. Damn again. She drove on till she found a pub, then went in and asked the barman the way.

He yelled across the bar, ‘Hey, Fred, how d’you get to Ryder’s old place? Is that first left or second?’

‘Doc Ryder?’ Fred shrugged away from the wall by the dartboard, picked his teeth thoughtfully as he sauntered towards them and eyed Frankie with interest. ‘Goin’ there, are you?’

‘If I can find it.’

He nodded. ‘Back down to the bottom of the hill, turn right, go about two miles, first left, along about couple hundred yards or so on the right. Thatched place, it is. Old Tudor job—white gates.’

All eyes were on her, as if a woman visiting Robert Ryder was a rare and notable occurrence.

She forced a smile. ‘Thank you. I’m sure I’ll find it now.’ She made for the door, and was just opening it when Fred hailed her.

‘Hear his daughter’s home.’

She turned back slightly. ‘Yes.’

‘Good job, too. The mother’s not worth her weight in chicken sh—ah, manure.’

Amidst the ribald laughter she made her escape from the pub, running across the potholed car park in the slashing rain.

Just before she reached her car she put her foot into a pothole, jarred her ankle and splashed muddy water all the way up her clean tights. Swearing comprehensively and most satisfyingly under her breath, she slammed the car door, started the engine and drove back down the hill, along a miserable, rutted lane for two miles or more, until she was sure that Fred had got it wrong.

Then suddenly there was a little turning, an even smaller road, and on the right a low, thatched house with lights blazing a welcome from all the windows. There was an old-fashioned lamppost at the entrance, and in its warm glow she saw the name on the opened gate.

Freedom Farm …

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS a lovely evening. Jane had gone to huge lengths to prepare a meal to remember, and Robert was obviously touched and very, very proud.

The fact that Robert clearly hadn’t been expecting her was obvious from the look on his face when he opened the door. However, he quickly recovered his poise, accepted the bottle of vintage port with a polite murmur of protest and then showed her through into the drawing room.

It was spotlessly tidy, a lovely, heavily beamed room with formal furniture and an air of expectancy. While Robert fetched her a drink she found herself looking round the room and trying to work out what was wrong with it, because it lacked something indefinable but very, very important.

Warmth? Not heat but warmth—love, perhaps. She sensed that it was a room not often used, a room where shared laughter and tender words never echoed, and so the walls were blank, waiting for history to carve itself into the atmosphere. Or recent history, at least. The aged walls and heavy oak beams were soaked in history, but it seemed suppressed, as if it needed the heat of passion to bring it all to life.

She sensed that Robert, too, was uncomfortable in there, as if there was another room, another place that was his retreat—a place where he would rather be. They had perched in there, sipping sherry and making stilted conversation, until Jane came in and announced that their meal was ready.

She was flushed a dull rose, and her cheek was adorned with a dollop of curry sauce, but her eyes were full of eager anticipation and dread in equal measure.

How wonderful, Frankie thought achingly, to have someone to try so hard to please you. The look in Jane’s eyes reminded Frankie of her brother’s wife, eager to please, nothing too much trouble.

And how wonderful, she thought, to have someone you wanted to please, be it father, husband—lover?

Jane ushered them through into the dining room and seated them at the worn and well-loved mahogany table, then served up the meal from the vast number of bowls and dishes that were laid out on its surface.

‘JJ, this looks wonderful,’ Robert said in astonishment, and the girl flushed with pride and caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

Heavens, what a pretty girl, Frankie thought, and then wondered how Robert would cope without the moderating feminine influence of a wife. Would he allow Jane any freedom to explore her budding womanhood?

She thought not—or not easily. He clearly adored her, and the thought of her turning into a woman with a woman’s needs and wants would torture him, Frankie was sure.

The food broke the ice a little. OK, the rice was a little cold, and Frankie had a sneaking suspicion that her ‘vegetable’ curry was a few frozen veg quickly boiled and then doused in the chicken curry sauce. But she decided that Jane’s sensibilities were more important than her own and ate it with every appearance of enjoyment, and gradually the conversation warmed and laughter trickled in.

‘So, how are you coping with the old bossy-boots?’ Jane asked her at one point with a wicked twinkle at her father. ‘Is he awful at work?’

Frankie grinned and studied him. ‘Awful? Only five days a week.’

‘You haven’t worked with him on Saturday and Sunday yet,’ Jane pointed out.

‘So I haven’t. I expect he’ll be even worse then, as it’s the weekend.’

Robert closed his eyes and gave a mock sigh. ‘Maligned, I am. I thought I’d actually been the perfect boss.’

Frankie chuckled. ‘Of course. I expect you’re really very kind under that grim and forbidding exterior.’

His eyes flew open and he studied her in genuine astonishment. ‘Grim and forbidding? Really?’

She relented. ‘No, not really. Mostly you’re quite civilised. You only bite if I’m particularly stupid or you’re particularly hungry.’

It was an unfortunate choice of words. Something flared in his eyes, and Frankie felt the heat scorch her cheeks. She dropped her head forward slightly and her hair swung down and screened her blush. Damn, what was going on? She’d thought she’d imagined the heat between them on her first night, when he’d brushed the crumb from her lip—but perhaps not?

She hadn’t lied, in fact. He had been a little grim and forbidding. Maybe this uninvited attraction was the cause? He probably resented it for getting in the way of a professional relationship.

Well, he was safe with her. Her career was more important than her private life—for now, at least.

Finally the meal was finished and Jane ushered them out into the drawing room again where she served them coffee, then curled up beside her father on the settee with a cup of hot chocolate.

‘That was wonderful, JJ,’ he told her, and the warmth in his eyes and voice made Frankie’s throat ache. She busied herself with her coffee, giving them room while they exchanged quiet, gentle words. Did he know how lucky he was? she wondered. Or Jane? Did she have any idea how precious her father’s love was, or how fleeting?

She swallowed the lump in her throat and stirred the cream into her coffee, watching the black and white merge to a dull tan.

Like her life. The contrast was gone, leaving only work to bring any colour or meaning to it. She wasn’t unhappy, but she wasn’t happy either. Content?

She probably should be grateful.

She listened to the soft music playing in the background, and the gentle murmur of Robert’s voice mingled with Jane’s lighter tones. What was she doing here? Robert didn’t want her here, stirring up the undertones and making things difficult. She ought to go—

‘Goodnight, Frankie. Thank you for coming.’

She looked up, blinking, thinking herself dismissed, and found instead that Jane was on her feet and hovering at the door. ‘I have to go to bed,’ she said with a little grimace.

Frankie laughed wryly. ‘Don’t knock it. It wasn’t so long ago I would have given my eye-teeth for someone to send me to bed.’

Jane grinned. ‘Yeah, well, we all want what we can’t have, don’t we? Oh, well, ‘night, all.’

‘’Night, Jane—and thank you for a lovely meal. I really enjoyed it. In fact, talking of bed …’ She set her cup down with a little rattle. ‘I must go—I’ve been here for hours—’

‘Oh, you don’t have to go. Stay and have another coffee with Dad—there’s tons in the pot. ‘Night, Dad.’

‘Goodnight, JJ—and thank you, darling. It was a wonderful birthday treat.’

She grinned, her apprehension gone, and flitted through the door. Seconds later she reappeared, a rather more sheepish look on her gamine face.

‘Um—don’t worry about the kitchen, by the way, Dad. I’ll fix it tomorrow.’

Robert closed his eyes as she flitted off again, humming. ‘Oh, God,’ he groaned. ‘I have a bad feeling …’

Frankie chuckled, her melancholy drifting away on his sigh. ‘Come on. She’s done enough. I’ll help you sort it out before I go.’

She followed him into the kitchen, cannoning into his back in the doorway. The grunt of disbelief echoed through his chest and, peering over his shoulder, she scanned the kitchen.

‘Yup—looks like a teenager just cooked a meal,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll wash; you dry up and put away.’

Those few words made it sound so simple. They didn’t begin to touch the bottoms of the pans, caked and burnt with rice and custard and curry sauce, or the endless pots and jars and packets strewn across the worktops—and over it all the fine, crunchy scatter of demerara sugar …

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