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She was propped up high, looked flushed and unhappy, and had pushed the bedclothes down as far as her waist, her thin arms lying limply at her sides. 'Don't.. .want.. .visitors,' she croaked at Anna. 'Not Nigel.. .or anyone.'

'Don't worry, I'll make sure no one comes in,' Anna said, taking Fay's pulse and looking at her charts, noting that her temperature had risen to over 102. No wonder the poor girl felt ill. Leaving her to rest and assuring her again that no visitors would be allowed in, she left the room to wash her hands, take off her gown and mask and deploy the nurses on their various tasks, including the learner, May Fenn who—eager as ever—was put in charge of Fay Cotton's obs.

After visiting was over Meg Brodie arrived to do her round, together with an anaesthetist to check over the patients due for surgery next day. The phlebotomist came to take blood for cross-matching and Bill Corby looked in on Fay. Pretty soon it was ward suppers and then evening visiting.

Along came Nigel Cotton with a long, stiff sheaf of salmon gladioli, carrying it into the ward like a poker and stopping short when he failed to see his wife. Anna, who was in the ward talking to Mrs Curry, went forward to meet him, telling him what had occurred.

'Tonsillitis
! Do you mean to tell me she caught it in here, in hospital, where everything is supposed to be germ-free?'

'No one knows how these things are caught, Mr Cotton. Your wife could have contracted it from a visitor, or even one of the staff carrying the virus but not actually developing it. I think perhaps—' Anna strove to be tactful '—it might be as well if you didn't go in to see her this evening—it's difficult for her to talk.'

'Where is she?' He looked momentarily floored.

'In one of our side-wards; she's being kept comfortable.'

Expecting a scene, Anna was relieved when he turned on his heel, said he'd come back in a day or two and made off at speed with the air of a man who suspected that germs were chasing him out of the doors. It was unfortunate that, in his haste, he forgot to leave the flowers. Still, I can tell Fay he's been, Anna reasoned; I can even lie in my teeth, say that he sent his love and best wishes and not mention the flowers at all.

Two other visitors wanted to see Anna but there were no real problems and at half-past seven, during her own supper break, she found time to slip up to the maternity wing to see the abandoned child.

The visitors in the postnatal ward were mainly proud fathers, and one or two young-looking grannies were craning their necks over cots. Rose Webb was off duty but the midwife in charge, who had been told that Anna might come up, brought the baby out of the nursery and placed him in her arms.

Sitting down with him in a small room leading off the nursery, Anna was unprepared for the wash of emotion that swept over her. Not that the baby was beautiful— he was wrinkled and shock-haired, his head came up to a point and he was pale with spots on his chin.

But it was his vulnerability that got to her—the feel of him in her arms, his warmth and small bulk through the Babygro that the nurses had found for him. 'How could anyone turn their back on you; leave you here like this? How could your mum want to be rid of you?' she whispered, close to his face.

She was so engrossed in baby worship and in battling with her feelings that she was unaware of anyone entering the room until she saw Simon, squatting on his heels in front of her, his eyes level with hers.

'I thought you might find time to visit.' His forefinger stroked the child's cheek.

'Then you were right, weren't you?' she said briskly, unwilling to let him see how holding the baby affected her. Why did he have to come up just then?

'The nurses are calling him Little Pete.' Simon was standing up. All she could see of him were his legs and front and the edge of his suit jacket. 'Do you approve?' he asked, and now his voice was way above her head.

'Oliver would be better... He looks a forlorn little chap,' Anna replied and, as if agreeing, the baby started to yell. Crooning to him she lifted him and held him against her shoulder, whereupon his wailing ceased as he settled himself and curled his head in her neck.

'He's taken to you; sensible chap,' Simon said, and was just in time to see the look on her face and the start of tears before she got to her feet and bore the baby back to the nursery, laying him in his cot.

'I know how you feel, Sister.' The midwife had seen her distress. 'I cried buckets when he was brought in— all the time we were cleaning him up. Still, shows we're human, doesn't it...? Blow this talk of being detached. I'll tell Rose you've been, and come up again, if you want to, at any time.'

Composed once more, Anna left the unit, relieved to find that Simon was nowhere to be seen, as she went through the corridor doors. He was waiting for her at the head of the stairs, though, and in no way could she escape. 'He'll be all right, you know,' he remarked as they descended to the gynae floor. 'A couple longing for a child will adopt him, and he'll be spoiled rotten all his life. The natural mother isn't
always
the best person to look after her child.'

'I realise that—' her voice was muffled '—but, to be honest—' she turned and faced him as they reached the landing '—I was upset for myself.; It was that old nuisance, the maternal instinct, manifesting itself!' She laughed, feeling better; there was nothing like facing the truth and stating it too.

But Simon didn't, however, laugh with her, and he was grave-faced as he said, 'You'll remarry one day, Anna, and have children of your own.'

'I intend to,' she said quietly, 'but in the meantime I've a ward to get back to. Are you coming in, or were you just...?'

'Off home,' he finished for her, turning and making his way towards the lifts.

Much later, in bed that night, she wondered why she had answered Simon in the way she had, for to say that she intended to marry again implied either that there was a man in her life wanting to marry her, or that she was actually hunting for one.. .neither of which was true.

Conversation
flowed easily between Anna and Alex during their dinner date at the Albermarle Restaurant on top of the Grand Hotel. The view from its windows was breathtaking—eight miles of curving coastline, the sea faintly pink, reflecting a sky which had recently slipped its sun.

It had been another hot day and the streets and promenade—even the clifftop grass and beach—were still exuding warmth. Aloft in the cream and gold restaurant, however, there was welcome, drifting coolness from the open sliding windows, like patio doors, which let in the hiss of the sea.

Anna had felt a tremor of uncertainty as she'd showered and dressed earlier on. Did she really
want
to go? What had she let herself in for? Did she want to know Alex better, and where would it lead to if she did? She zipped herself into a cream silk dress with not too plunging a neckline. A topaz necklet, matching earrings and the new-penny gleam of her swinging newly washed bob, caused heads to turn when she and Alex were shown to their banquette table just before eight o'clock.

He was the perfect host—attentive, interesting. They discovered that they liked the same sort of food, films and books, and also Arthur Pinter's seascapes—a local artist, who'd died ten years previously. With all this behind them in mutual sharing, it didn't seem too strange, nor too intrusive, when Alex asked her the same question that Simon had two days before, although leading up to it rather more carefully.

'Do you still miss your husband, Anna,' he said, 'or have you adjusted to widowhood?'

'I still think of him but, yes, I've adjusted.' She watched him refill her glass.

'Would you marry again, if the right man came along?'

'Like a shot!' she said and laughed, then tempered this by adding, 'Yes, I would like to remarry and I hope to, eventually, but I'm in no hurry. I'm enjoying the present and, of course, I love my job.'

'You have youth on your side; you don't have to worry.'

'I'm not
that
young.. .less than three years off thirty, which is a milestone in a woman's life. Anyway, what about you,' she ventured, 'are you going to plunge again?'

He looked away from her unsmilingly and, with a little pang of alarm, she wondered if she ought to have phrased the question a little more delicately. He's not the kind of man you can bounce things at; he likes to be prepared for what's coming, she thought, sipping the last of the claret they'd enjoyed with their saddle of lamb.

'If I could find someone who would share my interests and come to love my son, yes, I would certainly marry again,' he said, looking down at his plate and moving a piece of cheese onto a cracker with careful meticulousness. 'Two years ago I thought I had met her, but...' he put down his knife with a little click and pushed at his plate '.. .she made a fool of me, a complete fool. And that sort of thing...' he turned to Anna again '.. .makes a man careful next time round.'

'Of course... Oh, how awful! Alex, I'm so sorry...' she began, then broke off because he was looking beyond her, further up the room, raising his hand and smiling...

Following his eyes, she saw no one she knew, and he quickly explained that he'd spotted a friend of the
family... 'She's Pa's goddaughter, as a matter of fact, name of Julia Trafford. Looks as though she's sporting a new man; Julia's a great one for change. They must have come in at the far end through the cocktail lounge. That's her, look, near that yucca plant, wearing a jade dress.'

Intrigued, Anna looked and spotted Julia Trafford without too much difficulty. She had dark, piled-up hair and an expanse of creamy skin was well in evidence above the neckline of her dress. She didn't look all that young, though; she was probably, Anna thought, well into her thirties—not that it was easy to tell in this light, and from a distance of twenty yards or so.

She was talking to the waiter, who was inclining towards her and hiding her escort from view, and as he moved—all but bowing from the table—Anna's heart leapt for she was looking.. .she was looking at Simon, sitting there straight and tall, unfamiliar and oh so attractive in a dinner jacket, his head turned towards the girl.

Anna's feelings were in turmoil. How dare he.. .how dare he sit there, like that, with
her.
..? How could he even want to when he's been as he has with me—even asked me out? Yes, but you refused him didn't you...? You turned him down. And what a good job I did because even if I hadn't he'd still have been here with her! He
is
like Daniel, very much like Daniel. For that's what he would have done..
.did
do, time and again. I'm
glad
I turned him down!

She, that woman—that Julia Trafford—was talking and moving her hands. Perhaps she was pointing Alex out to him for the next minute they were looking down the room, and the occupants of both tables were acknowledging one another with smiles and little waves. If Simon was surprised he hid it well; his mouthed 'hello' to Anna was relaxed and, cheerful and unselfconscious, he was
out to enjoy himself. No doubt, Anna seethed thickly, he was anticipating the joys of slipping into bed with the creamy-skinned Julia after their sumptuous meal.

'Do you know the man she's with?' Alex was watching Anna's face.

'I ought to.' She took a grip of herself. 'He happens to be the consultant gynaecologist at the Regent. I see him most days. As a matter of fact he's the surgeon who patched up Imogen.'

'Really?' Alex's eyes flicked to their table again.

'Yes, really, really!' Anna gave a strained laugh, hearing him say,

'Julia's rarely without an escort, and they're usually professional types. She's a doctor herself—a research scientist in the field of equinine disease. She's made a name for herself world-wide, and often lectures abroad. Her father and mine have been friends since their university days.'

'She sounds clever,' Anna said, very nearly adding, brains as well as sexual charms, but stopped herself just in time. They were touching glasses, she noticed, and once again something akin to pure outrage washed over her, making her want to get to her feet and shout and throw something heavy. She must be out of her mind.

'Would you prefer,' Alex's mild-toned voice infiltrated her ire, 'to have coffee here at our table, or through in the lounge?'

'Actually,' she told him longing not only to get out of the restaurant but out of the hotel and off its environs before she boiled up again, 'I don't think I've got room for coffee, after such an enormous meal.'

'Same here.' Alex's napkin joined hers on the table-top. 'I often skip coffee at this time of day.' He was looking about for the waiter who, seeing his signal, brought their bill on a plate. 'I don't think we need to
stop off and speak to Julia and your friend—unless you particularly want to, that is?'

'No.' Anna shook her head. 'I know how I'd feel if someone barged in just to say hello when I was out on a date, especially if I was eating. It would put me off my food.'

Alex laughed. 'There'll be other opportunities for you to meet Julia,' he said as the waiter eased their table away and they left the restaurant. Walking slightly ahead of him, Anna wondered what he meant. Surely he wasn't going to suggest a foursome... What a gruesome thought!

A taxi bore them to Romsey Road, waiting at the kerb whilst Alex saw her up the path and into the shadow of the porch. His goodnight kiss was the light, swift kind but his arms about her back held her in the way she liked, making her feel happy and good about herself and taking the painful edge off the recurring image of Simon with Julia in the Albermarle Restaurant.

Over the following three weeks Anna and Alex began meeting on a regular basis. Not surprisingly, owing to Charding lacking the anonymity of London, they were seen around by colleagues and friends who coupled their names and who gossiped, and wondered, and whispered, and assumed—in the way that people do.

This was brought home to Anna one morning on the ward when Rose came down from Maternity to borrow some paper sheets. Rose and Dick Painter from Rheumatology had seen Anna and Alex at the theatre the evening before.