7 comments/ 8815 views/ 0 favorites Soup and a Smile By: Ygraine CHAPTER ONE : The Visitor The cats were the first to announce his arrival. Tails high in the air they paraded up and down the hall. Pushing open the door to the living room, they rubbed themselves against her legs, gazing at her with bright eyes as if to will her to do something, to get up and follow them. She pushed them gently away, too deep within her book to want their interruption. A log fell to cinders in the fire with a gentle hiss while the old clock's steady tick counted the lazy seconds marking a peaceful evening. As the quarter hour chimed she heard the approaching car. Drivers rarely came this way at night, unless it was a local taking the short cut between two villages. The engine had a high pitched whine, rather like a death keen, then it spluttered and there was silence. Jo sighed and put down the book, marking her place with a worn leather bookmark. She made her way to the kitchen and filled the kettle, setting it to heat on the centre of the hot plate. Whoever was in the car would want tea on such a frosty night as tonight. The cats crowded round her ankles, mewling at her, eyes bright with anticipation, willing her to follow them to the front door, but she refused to be hurried. Instead she went into the larder and fetched down the red cake tin. The travellers might be hungry too. Carefully, she placed a small plate on the large, oak table and arranged the flapjack in a tiny pyramid. That would soothe them as they waited by the fire. There was plenty of soup if they needed a meal and bread fresh from baking. It was all prepared. The bell jangled in the hall, the noise so loud in the silence of the cottage, she almost jumped. Time to greet her visitors. As she walked along the hall, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and gave a half smile. A middle-aged woman, streaks of silver in her brown curls smiled back. She hoped she wouldn't frighten off whoever stood on her doorstep. She knew she must look strange in her long velvet skirt and the plaid shawl thrown around her shoulders to ward off the draughts. People didn't wear clothes like this any more, but most people lived in centrally heated houses where summer reigned all year long, not in ancient cottages with thick stone walls and leaded windows. Her clothes were warm and comfortable and she enjoyed wearing them. Let others think what they might, it didn't matter to her. She drew back the long bolt and turned on the porch light before she opened the door. There was no sense of danger, but she wanted to be able to see her visitors clearly before she let them across the threshold. A man was standing on the top step, his black raincoat thrown hurriedly over his suit. "Can I help you?" "I'm terribly sorry to trouble you at this time of night, " his voice was deep, the cold and anxiety making it rasp, "My car has broken down and I wondered if you had a telephone I could use. My mobile doesn't seem to pick up any signal around here." She gave him a smile. "It's no trouble," she said, "Come in and warm yourself. The phone is just there by the stairs." She pointed to the small table and chair. He thanked her, ducking his head as he entered the dimly lit hall. "I'm on my way to Lower Slaughter Manor for a conference. It's not far away I think." She nodded. "I've left the number in the car...do you happen to know it? Can you suggest a taxi firm? It shouldn't take them long I hope." She lifted the heavy directory from the table and found the number of the hotel for him. Then she searched in the basket of oddments and gave him the card for the local taxi firm. She knew they didn't work after ten o'clock at night in the winter months and wondered how he would react when he realised he was stranded here until morning. It was lucky she'd made up Vicky's bed in the spare room this morning in readiness for the arrival of her niece for her half term holiday. At least, that was the excuse she gave herself when she took the sheets out of the warm airing cupboard. She should know by now that there was no such thing as luck. She'd been waiting for a visitor all day and now he was here. She went into the kitchen and took down the jars of dried herbs from the cupboard to make some tea. He was tired and frustrated, she could tell that from his eyes, not to mentioned the raised tone of voice on the telephone. He must have just been told the curfew by the taxi operator. Chamomile then with some lemon balm and lime flower - those would do for a start. She placed the dried herbs into the waiting china pot before pouring some golden honey into a tiny bowl. He would need the sweetness if he wasn't used to herb tea. The kettle began to sing. She poured the boiling water into the teapot and fastened the cosy around it, then left it to steep on the tray. He was standing by the phone, running his hand over his head as if to stop himself from destroying something. She heard muttered curses under his breath."Is everything all right?" He spun round to face her. "No! It isn't alright! The hotel swear they have no reservation for me and the taxi firm say they're closed until tomorrow morning! What am I supposed to do?" "Let's have some tea." She took his coat and hung it on the coat rack, then led him into the living room and sat him on the sofa near to the fire. "You'll soon warm up," she said, throwing more logs on the fire and giving them a good poke until the flames rose. He sat hunched against the arm of the sofa, but as she left the room he stretched out his arms towards the warmth. The large ginger tabby padded her way towards him and jumped up onto his lap. Jo expected him to push her away, but instead his left hand began to stroke her. Soon her purrs could be heard above the crackle of the flames. Jo collected the tray from the kitchen and set it in front of him. "This is very kind of you," he began, "I don't like to be a nuisance." "It's no bother." She pushed the mug of tea towards him. "Help yourself to honey. Herb tea can be strange if you're not used to it." He took a sip, then tried not to grimace as he spooned in the honey, watching it melt as he stirred it. "I think this must be a first for me," he offered after they sipped their tea in silence for a while. "The car is usually so reliable; I've never broken down before." "Have you had a long journey?" He looked at his watch and then compared it with the grandfather clock ticking away in the corner. "Four hours! It was only supposed to take three, but there were roadworks on the motorway around Manchester, so the bloody routemaster brought me down the A41 for some reason and then along some Godforsaken roads up hill and down dale until I didn't have clue where I was. I ended up just turning right or left whenever it told me to. Then the car started playing up but there wasn't sight nor sound of a garage. I hoped it would last until I reached the hotel." He sighed, "but it didn't." Jo pushed the flapjacks towards him. He took one, munching it absentmindedly. "Are we far from the village? Does anyone do bed and breakfast around here?" "Don't worry," Jo tried to reassure him, "You can stay here, I've got a spare bed. It's no trouble." His face showed a mixture of guilt and relief. "I hate to impose on you." "Don't worry," Jo smiled. "You look tired. Did you start off after work?" He nodded, sinking back into the cushions. "I couldn't leave until I'd finished everything for my presentation tomorrow. Harris...he's one of my colleagues...didn't have the figures I needed until 3 o'clock, so I knew I wouldn't be able to make an early start." "What time is your presentation?" "Not until eleven, but the conference starts at nine, which is why I wanted to be there tonight." "It's not very far. If needs be I'll take you there myself in the morning." "You're very kind." "I'm sure you'd do the same for me if I were in the same situation." She smiled at him again. "You must think me terrible rude," he suddenly leant forward, "Here you are, taking me into your home and I haven't introduced myself. I'm Allan Metcalf." He stretched out his hand to shake hers. "Jo Masters," she responded. "Are you still hungry?" Allan thought for a moment, realising he'd not eaten since lunchtime - a hurried sandwich between meetings."Yes, I am...the flapjack was delicious. Did you make it yourself? Can we call a take away?" Jo chuckled. "We're too far from civilisation for takeaways, Allan. Would you like some soup? I made bread fresh this morning too." "It sounds wonderful," he replied, his voice weary. She took the tray out into the kitchen and came back with the soup steaming in her green dragon bowl and a thick slice of brown bread spread with butter. She stood for a moment in the doorway. Allan had loosened his tie and was staring at the fire as if hypnotised by the dancing flames. The ginger tabby still sat peacefully on his lap, purring away like a steam engine, her head butting at his hand if he stopped stroking her. "What can you see in the flames?" Jo asked softly as she set the tray down in front of him and poured some fresh tea into their mugs. "People dancing, "he murmured, "the fire sprites seem happy here." Then he noticed the tray and pulled himself into an upright position, rubbing his eyes with his hands like a small child waking from sleep. "This is very kind of you." Jo picked up the cat and set her down in the small rocking chair on the other side of the fire. Allan pulled the tray onto his lap and took a spoonful of soup, blowing on it before he risked tasting it. As he swallowed the first few mouthfuls, he realised how hungry he was; soon the bowl was empty and the bread demolished. "You're a good cook," he said, smiling at her for the first time. "Not really, I just throw things together and see what happens." She picked up the tray. "Would you like some more or I have some bottled pears and cream in the fridge for afters." He thought for a moment. "Could I be difficult and ask for both?" She chuckled. "Of course! It won't take me a moment." This time when she returned he was talking to the cat, rubbing behind her ears and telling her how beautiful she was. "Off you go, Megan, " Jo pulled her gently away as she put the tray down. "You're going to cover Allan's suit with your hairs." "I don't mind, really, " he said, "it's a long time since I made the acquaintance of such a beautiful moggie." "She is lovely, isn't she?" Jo agreed. "Her sister is more of a grey green tabby and tends to keep her distance when strangers are around unless she wants something. They arrived soon after I moved here, about five years ago." "Really?" Allan was surprised. "I quite thought you must have always lived here." "It does feel like that, " Jo agreed, "but I was like you once, busy in the real world, projects to manage, deadlines to meet, people to influence. Then..." she stopped and drank some tea. "...now I'm here." She smiled at him, her eyes veiled and hidden. This was no time for sharing. That world was gone now, there was only this one. She let the slow ticking of the grandfather clock soothe her. She wondered whether he noticed anything, but when she looked, he was busy finishing the pears, running his spoon around the dish to catch the last drop of juice and sucking it from his spoon. He sighed happily and leant back against the sofa. "You know I haven't tasted pears like that since I used to stay with my grandmother in Worcestershire. She had pear trees in her garden. In the spring they were white with blossom, then as the year went on, we'd watch the tiny pears grow larger and fatter." He drank some tea, "I was never very keen on pears themselves, but Gran used to bottle them like you do. We'd have them for tea on Sundays with cream and bread and butter. I loved it!" He grinned and Jo could imagine the naughty imp he'd been as a child. "Come to think of it, this house reminds me of hers as well. The smell in your hall...is it lavender?" "Yes, I always keep a bowl of dried lavender by the phone. It helps me if I'm taking a traumatic call." "Do you get many of those?" "A fair few. Occupational hazard I suppose, I'm a healer." She waited for his response, watching his face to see whether he recognised the term or not. "I wish I could say the same," he said. "All I seem to do is watch people die." "How do you manage that? You don't quite fit my image of a hired assassin." "Not quite debonair enough for James Bond, you mean?" he gave a wry smile. "You haven't seen my luggage yet, it's amazing how little space an AK42 can pack away into these days." "Really!" She'd forgotten how good it felt to gently tease someone you felt comfortable with and she did feel comfortable. Now she'd seen to his immediate needs, she could sit back and take stock of the man lounging in front of her. He seemed perfectly at ease with his surroundings, his long legs in their light grey trousers splayed out in front of him, his head with its neatly cut black hair leaning on the back of the sofa, dark eyes watching her lazily. Did it matter she didn't know why he was here, what purpose her hospitality was serving in the wider universe? It was a long time since a companion shared her quiet time by the fire, other than her cats and they seemed quite happy with the situation. The grey tabby, Morgan, leapt down from her perch on the high window shelf and padded across to Jo's chair, jumping up so she could lie across her shoulders like a live stole. "Now we've both got one!" he remarked, rubbing a gentle finger under Megan's white throat. "Do you have cats at home?" "No, my flat's too small and I'm never there so it would be pointless." "You're on your own then?" Jo made a polite enquiry, "I was wondering if you needed to ring anyone to let them know you'd arrived safely." He gave a strained laugh, "No, there's no-one sufficiently interested in my whereabouts. My ex-wife lives in Spain now with her new family. My daughter is happily set up in university and doesn't want me interfering with her social life. You know what they're like." His throw away remark was almost Jo's undoing, but she managed a smile and busied herself tidying up the tray. The clock struck the half hour. "My goodness, I hadn't realised how late it was. You must be tired after your long drive. Would you like to get your things in from the car and I'll show you your room." He got to his feet. He seemed taller now he was standing close to her. He opened the door for her; then put on his coat and disappeared into the cold and darkness outside. Jo washed up the crockery and left it to drain while she filled two hot water bottles from the kettle. Although the bedrooms were relatively warm, it was still comforting to have some heat for your toes during the long dark night. Not that this night was particularly dark. Through the kitchen window she could see the full moon shining brightly on the frosty grass of the orchard. The outbuildings cast shadows against the garden wall, turning the cockerel on the weather vane into a ghostly figure sitting astride the capstones. She banked the fire in the living room and hooked the guard around so it could be safely left until morning. She heard the front door close again, so she went out into the hall. He was carrying a large black briefcase and a small overnight bag. He leant the bag against the telephone table while he took off his coat, complaining against the bitter cold outside. "Do you have everything you need?" Jo asked him. When he nodded, she bolted the door and turned the ancient key in the lock, showing him where it was hung behind the coats in case he needed to go outside in the morning before she awoke. "This way," she led him upstairs and along the landing to the small room at the back of the house. She showed him the bathroom and fetched clean towels from the airing cupboard. "Do help yourself to a bath or a shower either tonight or tomorrow morning. There's plenty of hot water." She turned down the bed and slid the hot water bottle inside. "I hope you'll be comfortable." "I'm sure I will. It really is good of you to go to all this trouble for a stranger in distress." Jo smiled. "I should thank you," she said, "for allowing me to follow Mother Teresa's prayer." "Her prayer?" Allan's face was puzzled. Jo pointed to a picture hanging on the wall with writing underneath. "I found it some years ago and framed it; you can read it if you like." She thought for a moment and then said, "Do you have a dressing gown?" Allan shook his head, thinking of the silk kimono hanging on his bathroom door. She went out of the bedroom and returned holding a blue plaid man's dressing gown with grey piping around the edges. Although it was thick, it was obviously well worn. Allan wondered to whom it belonged, but he didn't like to pry. It could be Jo's for all he knew. "This will keep you warm." Was it his imagination, or did she hold it to her cheek for a split second before handing it to him. "I'm sure it will, thank you. I'll try not to disturb you if I get up in the night. I often have trouble sleeping." Jo nodded as if she already knew his sleeping habits. "I'll leave you to get settled," she said. "If you need anything, I'm the second door on the left along the landing." "Thank you. Good night" "Good night." Jo left the room, closing the door behind her. She went into her own bedroom and leant against the wall to catch her breath. Why was she being so stupid? It was only a dressing gown. It was just something to give her visitor so he wasn't cold in the night. If it upset her so much, she could have given him hers - but that would have been silly when Philip's was hanging in the wardrobe doing nothing. She didn't know why she kept it, she'd given away all his other clothes as soon as she'd been discharged from hospital. She couldn't bear to see them spilling out of the wardrobe, knowing he was never coming back to wear them again. Stupid! She wiped the tears from her eyes before they ran down her cheeks leaving a bitter trail of cold. Why now? It was ten years ago the accident happened, ten years of change and growth. She had another life now, she was happy with her work and her animals and her writing. She was very lucky. She took a deep breath and let it out again slowly. It must be the moon, making her so emotional. It would be good to spend time in the moonlight. She'd been so busy lately finishing the last draft of her book she'd not spent any quiet time in meditation. That was it; she'd wait until her visitor was asleep then go upstairs to her "inner sanctum". CHAPTER TWO: Ghosts Allan woke with a start. He was sure he heard a child laughing. It must have been a dream. Footsteps pattered across the ceiling overhead. There it was again - the infectious giggle of a small child. What was going on? There were no signs of anyone else in the house earlier on, no small coats or boots or toys anywhere. Perhaps they'd been asleep upstairs all the time. That must be it. He turned over and closed his eyes, but now he was wide-awake. He heard the footsteps again, heavier this time, the floorboards creaking in protest above him. Perhaps he should go and ask them to be quiet. Tomorrow was a really important day for him. The culmination of ten years of intensive research would be unveiled to the medical world. He needed to be at his best. Throwing back the covers, he found his shoes and drew on the borrowed dressing gown over his blue silk pyjamas. Whoever had it before must have been shorter than Allan, because it only came down to his knees, but it was warm enough. He opened the bedroom door and searched for stairs leading up into the attic. They must be behind one of the doors. The first one he opened took him into another room. He made out an easy chair and what seemed to be a treatment couch over by the far wall. The next door was obviously her bedroom, but the bed had not been slept in. Another door yielded another bedroom, but no occupants. Then he caught sight of a small door seemingly part of the wooden panelling. If the moonlight hadn't caught the outline, he'd have walked straight past it. Soup and a Smile He opened the door very carefully, trying not to make any noise. He didn't want to be accused of prying into other people's business, but he did want to be able to go back to sleep without be disturbed by unruly children in the middle of the night. A blast of cold air hit him as he peered at the stairs in front of him. They appeared to be solid enough. A pale light flickered at the top of the stairs and once more he thought he heard voices. Treading gingerly on each step, Allan made his way to the top of the attic stairs. The attic was a long, single room lit by moonlight from two dormer windows. The flickering lights were sets of candles grouped together on the floor and on various shelves. Jo was sitting on a low chair, her face bathed in a shining light seeming to come from within, rather than a reflection of the candle flames. "Hello!" he called, not wanting to startle her. Then he realised Jo had her eyes closed. She made no movement in response to his greeting. Allan shivered. It was freezing up here! He noticed both windows were wide open. A bitter wind was blowing into the attic. Whatever was she thinking about sitting up here with the windows open and no apparent form of heating? He called her name. Jo's eyes flickered open. "What on earth are you doing up here with the windows open?" he asked her, going across and shutting them firmly. "You must be perished!" She looked at him strangely as he returned to her side and felt her hands and face. Allan took off his dressing gown, draping it over her shoulders as he helped her to stand. She was so cold, she could hardly move. "You kept your family well hidden," he remarked as he carefully extinguished the candles. "I don't have a family," Jo protested. "Not any more." "Something woke me. I thought I heard a child laughing and the sound of running feet." He looked sheepish. "I came up here to ask whoever it was to be quiet, then all I find is you with the windows wide open suffering from hypothermia!" Jo swayed and clung to him for support. "Come on; let's get you downstairs into the warm." Allan put his arm around her and guided her down the stairs, holding her tightly when her feet stumbled on the steps. Somehow they reached the landing without either of them falling. "Are you alright?" he asked. Jo closed her eyes and started to shiver violently. "We'd better get you into bed." Allan helped her into her bedroom, turned back the covers and sat her down on the bed. "You just lie down and I'll wrap you up in something warm." Jo sat there like a statue, still shivering, so he lifted her legs and eased them inside the covers. Her feet were like ice and when he checked her pulse it was slow and even, as if she were deeply asleep. Allan went to his room and retrieved his hot water bottle from the bed, filling it afresh from the bathroom tap. He wrapped it in a small hand towel and placed it at Jo's feet. She was still shivering. He looked down at her lying in the large double bed. She seemed so small and helpless. Maybe she needed looking after sometimes too. Not that he was any good at looking after people he cared about. What on earth was he thinking? He'd only met the woman a few hours ago. Their paths would never have crossed if his car hadn't broken down. She'd been kind to him, offered him food and shelter - made him feel at home. Given him a sense of peace he hadn't felt since he didn't know when. She'd cared for him. What was that prayer of Mother Theresa's she'd pointed out to him? "When I am hungry, give me someone I can feed. When I am thirsty, give me someone who needs a drink. When I'm cold, give me someone to keep warm. And when I grieve, give me someone to console." Well, she was certainly cold all right, and he could keep her warm. He slipped into the bed and wrapped himself around her, bracing himself against the chill of her body. She could always ask him to leave if she didn't want him there. She said nothing. He couldn't even be sure she knew he was there. After a while, she stopped shivering and rolled over towards him, snuggling her body as close to his as she could get, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. Somehow she fitted him perfectly. He moved his hand to stroke her hair and she sighed contentedly. "Are you feeling better?" he whispered, but she didn't answer and from her breathing he realised that she was asleep. Reaching out with his free right hand, he switched off the bedside lamp and smiled to himself in the darkness. Three years without a woman in his bed and now he had one curled up in his arms of her own volition, she'd gone to sleep on him without so much as a single kiss. He must be slipping! He yawned and closed his eyes and soon he, too drifted off into dreamless sleep. CHAPTER THREE: Breakfast Dawn was just breaking when Allan woke again. From her gentle breathing, he surmised his hostess was still deeply asleep, so he slid carefully from under the king-sized quilt and made his way to the bathroom. She'd said there would be plenty of water for a shower. He needed to be fully awake and alert for his presentation. Wrapped in a large blue towel and freshly shaved, he pondered whether to dress in his suit or explore the kitchen for breakfast beforehand. His stomach growled, protesting the absence of his usual morning coffee and toast, so he compromised, pulling on his trousers and donning the worn dressing gown once more. The cats met him in the kitchen, asking to be let out into the frost filled yard. He pulled back the heavy bolts on the scullery door and opened it for them, the freezing air almost taking his breath away. He hurried back into the warmth of the kitchen and hunted round for something to eat and drink. His search revealed no coffee, either ground or instant, but he did find some normal looking tea which he carefully spooned into the brown china teapot and covered with the boiling water from the kettle hissing away on the range. A morning like this called for something substantial. His grandmother always made porridge when there was frost around. Internal central heating she'd called it. Yes, there were porridge oats sitting on a shelf in the larder. He pulled down the jar and carefully measured a tea-cup full into a saucepan hanging over the sink. He tried to think what his grandmother cooked it in. He knew it was supposed to be three cupfuls of cold water, but there was something she did differently. What was it? He tried to imagine her standing by her electric cooker in the old farmhouse. What did she do next? Milk! That was it - half milk and half water. He went to the fridge and pulled out a large jug of milk. He couldn't see any bottles of milk, so he hoped he was taking the right container. Carefully he measured the milk and water into the saucepan and pulled a wooden spoon from the pot by the sink to stir it with. The grandfather clock struck seven; Allan breathed a sigh of relief he still had plenty of time before they needed to leave. Porridge couldn't be hurried, it needed time to thicken and boil then must be stirred continuously for five minutes to stop it burning. He left it to heat and poured himself a cup of tea. He wondered about fetching down his presentation and going through it one last time, but something stopped him. The slow ticking of the clock on the wall lulled him to more peaceful thoughts. He stared at the shape, remembering one similar in the hallway of his parents' house. It was a Viennese Regulator. He smiled to himself in congratulation at remembering the name. He reached out and stroked the black satin finish on the case- so many years of loving care shown in the polished wood. He wished he had time to make something with his hands. Maybe next year, when the research project wound up he'd have more time. Who was he kidding? How many research projects had come and gone? He never slowed down, made time for anything other than his work. His life was his work. Or it was until last night. Now he wanted to stay longer in this enchanted house, where time was regulated by the slow ticking of the clocks, not by any shrill alarms and mobile phones. Bubbling noises from the saucepan brought him back to the present. He'd better stir the porridge or it would burn. With his eye on the Regulator's dial he carefully wound the wooden spoon around and around the saucepan, watching the air bubbles breaking on the surface of the porridge. He felt deeply content. When it was cooked, he found two deep green and white bowls with dragons winding around the rims and filled them with porridge. He poured over a generous portion of cream he found in the fridge and sprinkled it liberally with sugar. He felt like Goldilocks tasting the three bears' breakfast as he scooped up his first spoonful. It was delicious. Soon his bowl was empty. He carried the other up to Jo together with a cup of tea on a tray he found down by the side of the sink. She was sitting up gazing out of the window at the sunrise as he knocked on the door. "Did you sleep well?" She looked at him and smiled. "Yes, thank you. I had the strangest dream." "So did I," he told her, carefully placing the tray on the bed, removing the cup of tea onto the bedside table before it had a chance to spill. "I hope you don't mind, but it seemed like a porridge kind of morning." "That's very kind of you." She smiled again. It made Allan feel warm inside, as if she brought sunshine deep inside him. "It's the least I could do after you took me in last night." She took a spoonful of porridge. "This is very good. Someone taught you how to make real porridge." "My grandmother," he admitted. "Can't remember the last time I cooked it. Anyway, I'd better finish getting dressed and let you eat. How long does it take to get to Lower Slaughter from here?" "Only ten minutes if the roads aren't too icy. I'll take you there if you'd like me to?" "Please," Allan felt a sense of relief. "You never know how long it takes for a taxi to arrive in this weather. Three quarters of an hour later, they were both ready to set off. Jo felt like an arctic explorer dressed in her thickest coat, boots and trousers with a warm hat covering her head. Allan was once more the suave business man in his smart suit and black raincoat. "What is it you do again?" Jo asked as she opened the garage doors. "I'm a clinical oncologist at Christie's in Manchester. Once this conference is over and I finalise my research, I'm moving down to Birmingham to the hospital where I did my training." "The Queen Elizabeth?" "No, Heartlands. They've offered me a professorial chair in the new research wing. It seemed too good a chance to pass up." This was so strange, Jo thought, as she drove along the deserted roads towards Lower Slaughter. Ten years since she worked in that hospital, now here was someone who was about to resume working there. Not so strange, she corrected herself; it was one of the largest hospitals in the country and employed thousands of people. Why shouldn't he work there? "I've always wanted to visit Christie's," she told Allan. "I remember a conference I went to in Leeds, years ago, before ..." she faltered for a moment, "before I left work. They were doing some wonderful work on training and supporting their medical and nursing staff in breaking bad news." "It's never easy." He answered, then sat reading his notes. She wanted to tell him to look out at the frost covered hedges, each twig a unique white sculpture against the azure sky. In the fields, animals appeared as dark masses grazing their way through iced grass as the weak golden sun shone down on them all. Very soon they turned on to the main road and then off it again as they came in to Lower Slaughter village. The hotel stood next to the little Cotswold church. Jo opened her mouth to tell him some of the local history, but the man who brought her breakfast in bed seemed to be subsumed by a cold, hard professional. She drew up in front of the entrance and waited while he got out. Some words were casually thrown in her direction, but he rushed off up the steps and through the hotel door before she could say Goodbye. Jo shook her head in regret and drove off home to feed the animals. CHAPTER FOUR: The Conference "Dr Metcalf?" One of the conference organisers strode up to Allan and led him away to meet the other speakers. Every one was anxious to hear about his research, even more so when the presentation was over. Doctors from all over Europe wanted to discuss his theories and see whether his techniques could be introduced into their clinical settings. He felt as if he were being mobbed. All their voices seemed to merge into one and he had great difficulty concentrating on individual questions. It wasn't until after the conference dinner, he found a quiet place in the bar and sat nursing his brandy. A grey haired man in a tweed jacket came up to Allan and asked if he could join him. Inwardly Allan groaned, but he smiled encouragingly and waved at the seat next to him. "I see you've met our local witch," his new companion remarked as he supped his pint. Allan looked blank. "Local witch?" he asked bemused. "Jo Masters. She lives just outside Upper Slaughter on the Naunton Road. I saw you get out of her car as I was driving in this morning. Is she a friend of yours?" "No, my car broke down outside her house last night and she took me in." Allan took a thoughtful sip of his brandy. "What do you mean she's your local witch? I didn't see any signs of broomsticks and black cats while I was there." The man laughed. "You wouldn't. I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself, I'm Roger Cardew. I'm a GP in Naunton. Jo works on a sessional basis with our patients three times a week. She's a medical herbalist and healer. The patients love her because she has time to listen to them and she makes them feel good about themselves, so they don't pester us quite so much. It doesn't cost us anything because she's self-financing. Sometimes she even gets some surprisingly good results. Don't ask me how she does it, but as long as it's free and no-one complains to our masters, we're happy to let her carry on." "She said something about being a healer, but after a four hour drive down from Manchester in the frost and fog, I'm afraid I wasn't listening very closely. She makes very good soup." Allan remembered the warmth of the living room and how comfortable he'd felt sitting by the fire with the cat purring on his knee. Roger Cardew chuckled. "You have to watch out if she offers you soup. It usually means the world is ending. Or that's what it used to mean before she came to live down here. Jo and I were at university together. She was doing some social engineering course or something, then she got married and went to work for a campaigning group. After the kids came along, she stayed at home to look after them." "I thought I heard children in the night, but I didn't see any," Allan told him. Roger looked at him strangely. "Ten years ago her world did end. They were going to IKEA on the M6 and the car was mown down by one of these foreign juggernauts. Philip and the kids were killed instantly, but somehow Jo survived. She was in hospital for months while they sewed her back together again. None of us knew if she'd survive mentally. Losing Philips and the kids like that was horrific. "I don't know how she pulled herself through it, but she did. Took herself off to Preston to do the medical herbalist course and then somehow trained as a spiritual healer at the same time. She has a counselling qualification too. She's wonderful with our bereaved patients. We wouldn't have been able to implement the gold standard for palliative care so easily if it hadn't been for her." Allan muttered something, but his mind was in turmoil. There were no children. The voices he'd heard the previous night must have come from his dreams, yet he was sure he'd heard them after he'd woken up. The dressing gown she'd given him to wear must have been her late husband's. No wonder she'd seemed so reluctant to give it to him. What a strange setup he'd just been in. Good job he was out of it and back in the real world of science and normality. "She's done well to get over such a tragic loss," he commented. "I'm glad you find her services useful with your patients. I've no truck with all this complementary mumbo jumbo myself. There's absolutely no research evidence for the results they claim. You really can't rely on anything which hasn't been validated by a double blind trial and no-one seems willing to set one up with a reasonable population size. I'm rather surprised you feel able to make it available on NHS premises when there's no evidence base for it." Roger shrugged and took a long pull at his pint. "When you've been working in General Practice for as long as I have, you learn to respect the things you don't understand but which seem to work – especially if your patients benefit. Evidence based medicine is all very well when you're stuck in a cash-strapped hospital trying to justify why you can't treat everyone who comes to you, but down here in the country, we notice different things. "Anyway, I'd better be off. There are a couple of patients I want to drop in on on my way home." "Doesn't the out of hours service look after your people for you?" "Oh yes, we let them sort out any new calls, but sometimes there are just one or two you want to keep an eye on yourself. Silly, I know, but it's all about being a family doctor rather than a Government employee." He stood up and shook Allan's hand. "Glad to meet you, Dr Metcalf. Thanks again for your amazing presentation this morning. I know lots of doctors who will be sorry they missed it." He walked off into the lobby, leaving Allan to finish his brandy alone. CHAPTER FIVE: Return to Normality The next morning, Allan went to reception to settle his bill and asked the clerk about a taxi to take him to pick up his car. The clerk looked behind the desk and found a message with a set of car keys in a plastic wallet. "I believe these are yours, Dr Metcalf. The garage dropped your car off this morning while you were at breakfast." Allan thanked her and went outside to put his suitcase in the boot. He wondered if he should find somewhere with a bunch of flowers and take them back to Jo's to thank her for taking him in, but when he looked at his watch, he realised he was already running late if he wanted to be back in Manchester in time to supervise the end of the latest test results. It was much warmer this morning and the roads were wet rather than shining with ice. Without another thought, he started the engine and turned left out of the hotel car park to make his way home. Once back in Manchester, he soon lost himself in his work, bringing his project to a close and planning for his move down to Birmingham. His life was a blurr of meetings, labs, teaching sessions and long nights at the computer writing up and analysing the results. Once in a while, when weariness overcame him and he took off his glasses to rub tired eyes, he would imagine he felt a large cat jump up on his lap and start purring. Once or twice he even put a hand down to stroke the long fur, surprised when his fingers did not find the expected warmth. Then he would shake his head, calling himself a fool for believing in dreams. He really did believe the night spent in Jo's house was only a dream. In his ordered world cars did not break down and he did not seek refuge overnight with a stranger. Especially not a stranger who fed him soup, then slept beside him for most of the night. It was a dream continuing to haunt him. The move to Birmingham came and went. Now he was installed in a new office, with new students to teach and a large, flat screen monitor in front of his desk. The window looked out onto an abandoned playing field – the site of the new research wing of the hospital which he would be heading up once planning permission was granted and the capital development monies agreed. Soup and a Smile It irked him how much like a field it still looked, even though it was in the heartland of the city. It reminded him too much of Jo. She would hate to see it built on, he knew she would. How he knew, he couldn't say, but it was one of those curious thoughts entering his mind when he let it remain still for more than two seconds. It was curious how much he thought about her. He supposed it was guilt in a way. He'd never thanked her properly. Oh he'd sent a note and a small box of orange roses to the surgery in Naunton with her name on it, but the writing was not his, he'd only dictated the words over the telephone. That night he'd dreamed he was back in the cottage. Jo was looking up at him as she sat doing embroidery. She told him he was working too hard and he needed to rest. She showed him the embroidery and he realised it was a picture of his life, a picture lacking in colour and vibrancy. "If you don't heed me, Allan," he heard her say, "I shall come and take you home. You ran away once, but you won't leave again so easily." He was so surprised by the intensity of the dream. He woke up and switched on the light, almost expecting Jo to be standing at the foot of his bed looking down at him. He could almost feel her presence in his modern, pristine bedroom. The room was empty, as was the pillow beside him. Strangely he did not feel alarmed or distressed. Her words were oddly comforting. He switched off the light, then, hearing the dawn chorus he went and opened the curtains, watching the sun rise over the canal basin in an almost silent city. CHAPTER SIX: The Return Several weeks later, rose hips were turning red on the bushes outside his window. It had been a long day. The sickness of one of his colleagues forced him to take a teaching round on the wards. He'd forgotten how long and boring they were when he wanted to be back at his desk, researching some new procedures he'd read about the previous night. He was harangued by a particularly obnoxious set of relatives who couldn't understand why their mother wasn't getting better. "She's dying" he wanted to scream at them, "Why don't you take her home and hold her hand for her last few days instead of leaving her in here, letting us take the blame for her final breaths." He held his tongue, trying to maintain a concerned look on his face as if he were taking note of their comments. It seemed like an eternity before the Ward Manager came over and rescued him, letting him escape down the stairs to arrive, ten minutes late for his postgraduate lecture in the Education Centre. Nothing was going right today. Back at his desk, he still couldn't find the research papers he was searching for. A cup and saucer suddenly appeared on his desk. "Why don't you drink something, Allan, I expect you've not thought about eating or drinking all day." "There hasn't been time," he muttered, then suddenly looked up at the figure standing on the other side of the desk. "You?" he couldn't believe his eyes. "I told you I'd come and fetch you, if you wouldn't come to me." "But that was a dream!" Allan took off his glasses and put them down on the desk. He rubbed his eyes, but the figure stayed where she was. "Am I asleep?" Jo laughed. "Drink your tea, then tell me if you're asleep." He sat down and brought the cup to his lips. This wasn't his normal tea. It was green and smelt of lemons. He sipped and found himself drinking green water. He must be asleep. He only drank coffee when he was awake. Jo waited until he finished the tea. "Come on, I'm taking you home. You can sleep there." "But my work!" he protested. "It will keep for a month or two. Nothing is so important for you to drive yourself into the ground. When you are rested, you can decide what is the most important, living to work or working to live or something different. It will be your choice." "But I can't!" Jo held out her hand. "Can't or won't," she challenged him. "What are you afraid of, Allan? Frightened I'll feed you more soup and the cats will leave hairs on your trousers? Or frightened you might enjoy yourself, might actually learn to feel again? Am I right?" Allan closed his eyes. He knew if he opened them again she would be gone, his office empty. He opened his eyes to the sound of knocking. Hugh Pickering, his Research Fellow, was knocking on the open door holding a sheaf of papers in his hand. "I've got the papers you wanted, Allan. Do you want to go through them now?" Allan looked at the disappearing light outside his window. "Not tonight, Hugh. I'm not feeling very well. I think I need some sleep. You go home and I'll see you tomorrow - I mean Monday." "OK, have a good weekend." Allan switched off the computer and put the papers in his briefcase. He really did need to get away for a while, or maybe just get some sleep. He never slept more than four hours a night. It must be beginning to tell on him if he was having waking dreams now. He pulled the door shut behind him and heard the lock click. Someone was standing in the shadows. "Who's there?" he called. He didn't have the energy to cope with intruders tonight. "It's only me," Jo said, walking towards him. "But you're a dream." He heard her quiet chuckle and thought how much brighter the world seemed through the sound. Then he felt her tuck her hand inside his arm. "What do I have to do to make you accept I'm real, Allan?" He smelt her perfume, his mind recalling this was something he'd smelt before, a long time ago. "I don't know," he replied. "I suppose you want to take me away from here." Jo nodded. "You're not well, Allan, I felt that when you came before, but you wouldn't stay long enough for me to do anything. I'm giving you another chance. It's up to you whether or not you take it." Allan felt waves of exhaustion roll over him. This wasn't what was supposed to happen, but it was happening. "Lead on, MacDuff," he said, holding the door open for her to leave the building in front of him. If this were a dream, he would go to his car and drive home to the apartment as he always did. Jo's hand was still tucked inside his arm. She led him down the hill to the public car park and opened the car door for him. "I'm kidnapping you, do you mind?" she smiled. "I suppose not," he said, tucking his long legs into the passenger seat and hunting around for a lever to let the seat slide backwards. "If this is a dream, can you wake me up when we get to your house?" "I will," Jo assured him, starting up the engine and driving off into the sunset.