Knave of Hearts. Caroline Anderson

      Strange, Anne thought, how comforting another person’s touch can be. They found cheese, and even a rather sorry tomato, and Beth decorated the frozen pizzas while Anne rummaged in the vegetable rack for edible potatoes. She had meant to go shopping, but Beth was so crabby and with Jake coming tonight …

      She sighed and turned on the tap, and stood staring out over the little cul-de-sac. Light spilt brightly from the houses, and the street lights made gleaming pools of gold on the snow that had fallen on Saturday night. It looked enchanted, and a long way from reality, Anne thought drily.

      She noticed that most of the drives were cleared, including hers—now which of her kind neighbours had done that for her? They’d even cleared the one next door, though that was pointless, because nobody lived there at the moment.

      Several of the semi-detached houses, including Anne’s and its partner, belonged to the hospital and were used primarily as family accommodation for doctors moving to the area, to give them a stop-gap dwelling until they found somewhere permanent to live. The hospital had agreed to let Anne’s house to her for the duration of her SHO year in view of the fact that she had a child, and by an amazing stroke of luck the woman directly across the street from her, Jenny Harvey, was a registered childminder who had in the past looked after the children of hospital staff.

      Not only was she very nice and extremely convenient, but she was also thoroughly familiar with hospital routine and quite happy to collect Beth from school with her own children and look after her at the weekend when necessary.

      Anne would be lost without her, and she was well aware of that fact.

      With another sigh, she picked up her vegetable knife and started peeling the rather ancient potatoes.

      ‘How are you doing?’ she asked Beth.

      ‘OK—shall I put them under the grill?’

      Anne turned and looked over her shoulder. ‘Very pretty—put them on the grill pan, but let me light it.’

      She dried her hands and struck a match, then fiddled with the temperamental grill until it lit with a great whoosh and settled down.

      She put the pizzas under a low flame and turned back to the sink. She mustn’t complain about the cooker. Really, they were lucky to have a roof over their heads, even if they did have to pay for it. The house was functional rather than cosy, but she had done her best in her limited spare time to bring an air of homeliness to it for Beth’s sake, and they were very happy there.

      It was their first home alone together, having lived previously with Anne’s parents, and she was determined to make the best of it. Her parents had offered to continue to support her, but, apart from the need to be independent, once Beth had started at school Anne knew she would find time hanging heavily on her hands.

      Her house year interrupted by her pregnancy, she had moved to Edinburgh to her parents’ home and with their help had completed the second half of her house year in a local hospital before settling down to raising Beth. Now, Beth was older, and Anne had to make a life for them without help from other people. It wasn’t just a case of pride, it was a fundamental need to survive out in the open away from the loving but often suffocating support of her parents.

      They had moved from Edinburgh to Norwich a year ago, and when the job had come up only thirty miles from them, it had seemed too good to be true. She could have her independence, but she needn’t be too isolated from them and Beth wouldn’t lose touch with her grandparents. Sometimes, though, when the heating played up or the grill wouldn’t light or the curtain tracks fell down, Anne wondered if it was all worth it.

      Turning the temperamental grill down, she sliced the potatoes and par-boiled them before frying them in a little olive oil, telling herself that they weren’t really chips and would be good for them, although God knew there couldn’t have been much vitamin C left in the withered little offerings.

      She really must get to the shops tomorrow. No wonder she had fainted in Jake’s arms—it was just the combination of a hectic schedule and a lousy diet.

      Beth had laid the table, the knives and forks the wrong way round, and Anne adjusted them quickly while she wasn’t looking.

      ‘Pizzas are done,’ Beth announced from her station by the cooker, peering under the grill.

      They ate their meagre meal quickly, and then, while the dishes soaked in the sink, they curled up together on the sofa in the little sitting-room that ran the full width of the back of the house, and Beth read her book to Anne.

      The homework done, the snowman described in great detail and the tears apparently forgotten, they went upstairs and ran a bath.

      While Beth splashed happily with her empty bottles and plastic toys, Anne unpacked the rucksack, hung up Beth’s uniform and found her hot-water bottle.

      The heating wasn’t very efficient in the bedrooms, and as Anne tucked her daughter into bed a short while later, she reflected that all they needed to stretch her meagre resources to breaking point was a long, cold winter.

      She had to pay Jenny, the rent, all her bills and feed them on a houseman’s salary, and sometimes she wondered how they would get to the end of the month. At the beginning of the month she had bought an ancient and not very reliable little car, the best she could afford, so that they could go out on her few days off and have fun and to enable her to get to the hospital and back quickly to give her more time with Beth at the beginning and end of the day.

      She would hate to sell it, but if it came to that she supposed she would have to. Such as it was, it was the only luxury she had left.

      Kissing Beth goodnight, she made her way downstairs and quickly washed the dishes, then tidied up the sitting-room and ran upstairs again to change.

      It was seven forty-five, so there was no time for a bath before Jake arrived. Knowing Jake, he wouldn’t be late, so she wanted to be ready on time.

      She opened her wardrobe doors and sighed. What could she wear? Not that it mattered, but she did want—— Silly girl. Why should it matter what impression she created? She tutted at herself, pulled a clean pair of jeans and an oversized sweater out of the drawer, and then sat down at the dressing-table and cleansed her face before reapplying her make-up.

      She wore only the minimum for work, but tonight she stroked a soft, smoky green on to her lids to bring out the hazel of her eyes, and a touch of mascara to lengthen her lashes—not that she could hope to compete with Jake when it came to eyelashes.

      A sudden thump from next door made her start. She glared accusingly at the dividing wall, then wiped the mascara off her cheek and peered out of the window. There was light spilling out on to the front garden, and a car on the drive—a BMW by the look of it. Must be a new consultant moved in over the weekend, she mused, and, on the way out of the room, looked at herself critically in the mirror.

      Too short, too slight, her figure such as it was shot to bits by childbirth, her hair mousy, her face about as arresting as a blank wall—she turned away from the mirror in resignation, not seeing the gracefulness in her slender body, the appeal of her figure softened by maturity to a gentle womanliness, or the wistful, expressive quality of her large, green-gold eyes above her neat, delicate features framed by soft glossy hair the colour of polished hazelnuts.

      Instead, convinced of her bland lack of appeal, she moved quietly through life, content to take a back seat and allow others to enjoy the limelight.

      Sometimes she wondered sadly if that was all there was to be to life, but usually she was too busy to consider herself.

      Tonight, though—tonight, she had to deal with Jake, and she needed a coat of armour to hide behind, never mind a dash of lipstick!

      It was a few minutes before eight, and as she straightened the cushions in the sitting-room and turned up the control on the gas fire in a last vain attempt to make the bleak surroundings homely, she heard little footsteps on the stairs.

      Oh, no, not now, she thought desperately.

      ‘Mummy?’