Questions of Trust A Medical Romance - By Sam Archer Page 0,2

the bulging shopping bags Chloe was hauling out of the boot of the Astra an instant before the thin plastic gave way and the contents spilled and smashed on the ground. As it was, only a single can bounced off the pavement.

‘Close shave,’ the woman clucked. Her eyes peered up at Chloe, beady and amused.

‘Thank you.’ Chloe breathed out in relief and got a more secure grip on the remaining bags now that her load was lightened. ‘If you just put it down, I’ll take everything into the house.’

‘Nonsense. You’ve got your wee boy to sort out.’ Her brogue was thick and Scottish.

Chloe had been unloading the shopping from the boot while Jake remained strapped into the kiddie’s seat in the back. She didn’t want him running off into the road while she was otherwise occupied, even though there wasn’t much traffic about. As she released him from the confines of the seat and hefted him, she wondered vaguely how the woman had known she had a small child.

‘I’m Margaret McFarland,’ the small woman said, sticking out her hand. ‘Your neighbour.’

So that was it; she’d seen Chloe and Jake arrive the night before, or perhaps set off on their errands this morning. Chloe shook, introduced herself and Jake. The toddler had reverted to shyness and turned his head away.

Margaret McFarland chuckled. ‘Scary old lady. Never mind. We’ll get on fine, lad.’

Gratefully, Chloe accepted Mrs McFarland’s help in carrying the shopping to the cottage. Despite the less-than-relaxed circumstances she couldn’t help being struck by how picturesque their new home was. Set at the end of a cul de sac lane, it was a perfect little mock-Tudor building with a riot of roses and wisteria around the front door and windows and a border of honeysuckle and daffodils framing the small patch of lawn. The interior was all low beams and country styling, and from the kitchen window the view was one of a pretty patchwork of fields dotted with sheep. It was the kind of idyllic setting that she would once have considered ideal for retiring to. Certainly she wouldn’t have dreamed a few years ago of actually living in such a place yet, and neither would Mark.

But things were different now.

As she loaded the bags on to the kitchen counter she heard Mrs McFarland bustling behind her. She turned and saw the other woman opening cabinet doors until she found what she was looking for: mugs, and a box of teabags.

‘I’ll do that –’ Chloe began, but Mrs McFarland waved her quiet.

‘You’ve had yourself a busy morning. Sit down. Milk, sugar?’

Too tired suddenly to get annoyed at the way the other woman was taking over in her own home, Chloe thanked her and set about putting away some of the perishables she’d bought, then getting a drink and a snack for Jake, who was exploring the still-unfamiliar surroundings of the cottage like an adventurer.

Settling thankfully across the kitchen table from Mrs McFarland, and sipping her tea, Chloe began to get to know the older woman. Margaret – she insisted Chloe call her that, though she reminded Chloe too much of an eccentric old schoolmistress of hers for Chloe to be fully comfortable addressing her by her first name – had lived all her life in Pemberham, and had occupied the cottage next door ever since she’d got married forty years earlier.

‘And after my Reginald passed on twelve years ago, I couldn’t bear the thought of moving,’ she said matter-of-factly. She had a son in Oxford and a daughter in London, a brood of grandchildren – ‘So I’m well trained when it comes to babysitting duties, if you ever need me for your little one,’ she added as an aside – and a horde of cats.

And, it turned out, an encyclopaedic knowledge of the details of the lives of almost every resident of the town, young or old. Mrs McFarland knew who got on with whom, which family was feuding with which. She was a member of the Women’s Institute, the local Neighbourhood Watch, the church committee, the horticultural society. She took in laundry and ironing for a small fee, baked for various fetes, delivered pamphlets door to door for any number of causes, and was a regular letter writer to the local newspaper. Margaret McFarland was, in short, a pillar of the community.

As well as a busybody and a gossip, Chloe thought, hiding a smile behind her mug. She’d taken to this bossy, fussy lady immediately, sensing a deep kindness