A Girl’s Guide to Kissing Frogs. Victoria Clayton

      ‘Oh, for a while.’ He shrugged. ‘Let them. Little minds.’

      We drove the rest of the way in silence apart from the noise of the engine as the gearbox coped with the hills, the squish of tyres on the slushy snow and the sound of my father humming. Despite my abysmal failure as a receptionist, he seemed in an excellent mood. He took the dangerous turn with precision and pulled up beside the front door. ‘Go to bed.’ He handed me a bottle of pills. ‘Take two with water. They might help the hangover.’

      ‘Thank you. I’m awfully sorry,’ I said again as I leaned into the back to get out my crutches.

      ‘I may not be in for supper. Tell your mother to leave something in the bottom oven.’

      He put the car into reverse to turn round. I just had time to draw back my plastered foot before it was crushed by the back wheels.

       12

      The next morning I arrived at the surgery a full hour before the first appointment. With the aid of a crutch I directed the bowl of the heater to reflect its fire into the centre of the waiting room. I sent Dimpsie off to the craft shop to do her accounting, made myself some tea and settled down to sorting the medical notes into alphabetical order. After a good night’s sleep my head had ceased to pound and the whites of my eyes were clear. Filing is easy mechanical work and I quite enjoyed it. By the time the telephone woke up I had already worked my way down to the third drawer.

      ‘Surgery,’ I said briskly.

      ‘Hello, Marigold,’ said a man’s voice, ‘you do sound efficient. It’s Rafe.’

      Surprise sent a shot of adrenalin to my heart.

      ‘How did you know I’d be here?’ I may have sounded a little defensive.

      ‘I rang your house just now and got Tom. Why? Is it supposed to be a secret?’

      ‘No. It’s just that yesterday …’ the door opened to admit the first patient of the day. I dropped my voice. ‘I can’t talk now. I’ll ring you later.’

      ‘Why don’t I pick you up from the surgery and take you out to lunch? Nothing grand. I know a nice little pub not far from here. One o’clock be all right?’

      I saw him running athletically from the back of the Centre Court to pulverize a lob shot, driving it into the ground and winning game, set and match for England.

      ‘That would be lovely,’ I said primly.

      He rang off just as Dr Chatterji arrived. He was wearing a red ski mask and a Chinese Army hat with the flaps tied under his chin.

      ‘Good morning, Dr Chatterji. Lovely day, isn’t it?’ I said brightly.

      A pair of reproachful brown eyes blinked several times before he went into his consulting room to take up his lonely vigil.

      Excitement was dashing through every vein in my body. I was going to have lunch with the man with whom I had been in love practically all my life – well, anyway, for long periods, if not actually continuously. It was true that I had hardly given Rafe a thought in recent years, but only because it had never occurred to me that I had the remotest chance of seeing him again.

      ‘Excuse me.’ A woman wearing a tweed glengarry addressed me in a tone of belligerence. ‘If I might have your attention, I’d like the next available appointment. If it’s not too much trouble for you.’

      I dragged my thoughts from an inspiring picture of Rafe in a peaked cap, duffel coat and white polo-necked jersey, with binoculars slung round his neck, on the conning tower of a submarine, the surrounding sea pockmarked with exploding shells. ‘Is it an emergency?’

      ‘I cut myself on a rusty tin two days ago. Probably it’s tetanus. I can feel my jaw seizing up as we speak and pain shooting up my arm.’

      Before I could stop her she had pulled off a bandage to reveal a purple finger and a blackened nail oozing something yellow.

      I shaded my eyes with my hand. ‘Dr Chatterji can see you straightaway.’

      ‘No, thanks. I want to see Dr Savage.’

      ‘Dr Savage has already got five patients lined up.’

      ‘I’ll wait.’

      She took her septic finger to join the other patients. I heard them whispering, then one of them said, ‘Do you think it runs in families?’

      ‘Booze, is it?’ said Glengarry. ‘I thought she was a bit –’ she tapped her temple – ‘you know, a natural.’

      ‘Poor Doctor Savage,’ said another. ‘It’s no wonder he …’ She cupped her hand over her mouth so I couldn’t hear the rest.

      ‘How’re the walking wounded today?’ asked Rafe as the car climbed an almost vertical road.

      Buster was leaning his chin on my shoulder, sighing from time to time as birds flew into his sight. He had a grey coat of stiff fur like wire wool, floppy ears, a square head, a heavy silver moustache and a soppy expression that betokened love for all humans in his golden eyes. Rafe said he was a Wirehaired Pointing Griffon.

      ‘Do you mean the patients or me?’

      ‘You, of course.’

      ‘Disgustingly cheerful, actually.’ I felt safe enough with Rafe driving to take in the wonderful views of banks of snow curling down to the road like giant breaking waves, their perimeters sparkling like foam where the sun melted them. ‘Considering.’

      ‘Considering what?’

      ‘What a sheltered life I’ve led and how thoroughly unappetizing the human body is when it goes wrong.’

      ‘It’s good of you to help your father out.’

      ‘Not really. I’m used to working hard and I’ve been horribly bored. It’ll give Dimpsie a chance to get the craft-shop accounts in order. And to be frank …’ I hesitated for a moment, then, remembering that Rafe had confided in me about his family, I rushed on ‘… I know Tom resents my reappearance under the paternal roof. I’m a drain on scant resources. Also he thinks I’m selfish and self-centred. So I thought I’d show willing. It’s mostly filing and answering the telephone … easy compared with trying to perfect a fouetté à l’arabesque when your feet hurt like hell and you’ve already been dancing for six hours. It’s just that I’ve lived in what I suppose is an artificial world devoted to the pursuit of beauty for so long that I’ve become squeamish.’

      ‘Are you longing to get back it? To the artificial world?’

      ‘It seems real when I’m in it. I don’t know anything else, you see. And when the dancing goes well it’s electrifying, like flying. You’re free and at the same time totally in control. It’s a extraordinarily wonderful sensation. Yes, I suppose is the answer to your question.’

      ‘Lucky you. I shouldn’t think many people feel like that about their work.’

      ‘Perhaps not. But of course it’s been at a price. There hasn’t been time to think about other things. Like how lovely this is.’ We had reached the high ground now, moorland without trees or hedges, the vast curves of rock, their featureless simplicity accentuated by the unbroken snow. ‘Isn’t it marvellous! Not a house, not a fence, not a telegraph pole. Even the road’s hidden beneath the slush. We might be in prehistoric times. I wouldn’t be surprised if we came across a man in wolf-skins carrying a mammoth tusk over his shoulder … Oh, look! Can you see in that little dip? There’s someone putting wood on a fire. And there’s a child helping him. They look quite ragged. Perhaps we have slipped back into another time.’

      ‘They’re probably burning the evidence of their last raid.’

      ‘You don’t mean –