Questions of Trust A Medical Romance - By Sam Archer Page 0,3

beneath the bluster.

Chloe was a good listener. It was a quality that came naturally to her, and she’d cultivated it further in her career as a journalist. So for what seemed like half an hour she was content to let Mrs McFarland ramble on about herself, town life, and even the state of the wider world. Eventually even Mrs McFarland seemed to run out of steam, and perhaps become aware that she was truly monopolising the conversation.

‘There I go again, blethering on about me, me, me,’ she said, helping them both to more tea from the pot despite Chloe’s half-hearted protests. ‘Where are my manners? What about you, dear? What’s your story?’

In other circumstances such a blatant question would have rubbed Chloe up the wrong way, but by now she’d got used to the older woman and her manner so she didn’t mind. ‘Jake and I have moved up from north London. We needed a change of scene, and Pemberham looked ideal.’ Before the obvious question could be asked – why did you need a change of scene? – Chloe went on: ‘I’m a journalist by training. I’ve had an expression of interest from the Pemberham Gazette, so I’m hoping that’ll bear fruit.’

‘A fine paper.’ Mrs McFarland nodded her approval. ‘But I didn’t know they were looking for a new reporter. They’ve four already.’

Is there anything that goes on in this town you don’t know? Chloe wondered wryly. ‘I do mostly freelance work, and the Gazette’s editor has read some of the stuff I’ve submitted and liked it. He says he might have a couple of commissions for me.’

‘Splendid.’ For the first time, Mrs McFarland seemed lost for words. Chloe knew she was burning to ask a particular question, and decided that it would be best to bring it out into the open from the start, rather than allow speculation and gossip to take on a life of their own.

Quietly Chloe said, ‘It’s just Jake and I, by the way. I lost my husband a year ago.’

‘Ah.’ Mrs McFarland nodded sadly. ‘He must have been mad.’

Chloe frowned. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘To have left a pretty girl like you. Some men…’

‘Oh.’ Chloe understood, and felt her anger seeping away. ‘No. It’s not like that. He didn’t leave me, not in that sense. Mark died.’

Mrs McFarland put her hand over her mouth and stared at Chloe. Then she covered her eyes and peeped out between splayed fingers.

‘Oh, my… I’m so, so sorry. Forgive me. How could I have…?’

‘It’s all right.’ Chloe managed to smile. But the memory stabbed at her, hard and cold as if the past year hadn’t dulled it, and suddenly she didn’t want to talk about it any more, and hoped the other woman wouldn’t ask her for details because she’d have to ask her to leave.

To Chloe’s relief, Mrs McFarland changed the subject, not abruptly as people often did when embarrassed by another person’s grief, but smoothly and naturally. She began to enumerate practicalities: waste collection days, useful contacts in the town council, local hospital facilities. Chloe reached for a notebook and paper but Mrs McFarland said, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll print it all out for you.’

Jake was getting fractious and was clearly in need of a nap. Mrs McFarland took the hint. At the door Chloe said, ‘Goodbye, Margaret. And thank you for the welcome. I really appreciate it.’

‘If there’s anything you need, I mean anything at all, you know where I am.’

Chloe watched the small woman make her way back towards her own cottage.

Anything I need? she thought. I need for the last year not to have happened. I need to have Mark back.

The blackness began to crowd down on her, even in the brightness of the early spring afternoon, and she stepped back inside and closed the door.

***

Normally, Dr Tom Carlyle’s schedule was straightforward on a Tuesday. See his last patient at 4.45 pm, finish up by 5.30 at the latest, then beat the rush-hour traffic across town to get to the nursery a couple of minutes before it closed at six. Over the last year Tom had got used to the rhythm of the day and had all the manoeuvres down like clockwork.

The problem was, today his last patient was Mr Biswas.

Mr Biswas was a seventy-five-year-old man with diabetes. He’d had the illness since his twenties and it wasn’t ever going to go away, but for the last few years it had been reasonably well managed with a carefully fine-tuned regime of insulin injections, oral hypoglycaemic medications,