home at the end of the day, being driven back to the shore road end by another friendly nurse who shared a car with her sister, it was to learn that Quentin had just called and left again.
‘He said to tell you his diagnosis was correct,’ Lana reported suspiciously. ‘Just what did he mean by that? Does that mean I have to go into hospital again? He left a note for you ... over there.’ She pointed with one long, slender finger with its freshly painted nail.
‘Thanks.’ She ripped open the envelope and drew forth the single sheet of notepaper covered in a surprisingly clear and readable handwriting. It did not take many minutes to read the brief note, then she glanced across to where Lana was watching, openly suspicious of Quentin’s verdict.
‘Well?’ Lana demanded as Joy still stared at the unmistakable signature ‘Always yours, Quentin’. With an effort she pulled herself together and told herself not to be idiotic enough as to read meanings into things which were probably never intended. Maybe, since he was such a naturally friendly person, this was his customary method of signing letters which were personal rather than purely of business purpose.
‘Doctor Quentin simply says he agrees with the specialist opinion and that a physiotherapist, a Miss Amy Calvin, will call here two mornings each week, beginning in the morning. Also a masseur, a Mr. Hugh Tate, will call twice each week from now onwards, beginning the day after tomorrow, and that in a few weeks’ time you should be able to attend the outpatients’ department at St Lucy’s, so,’ she added more to herself than to Lana who had apparently lost interest once she knew the verdict upon herself, ‘I shall have to get my little car as quickly as possible and try and get enough lessons in to pass the test before you start there!’
‘If Doctor Quentin and his father have as much influence as all that,’ Lana retorted crisply, ‘then I don’t see why an ambulance can’t come for me when I start with the clinic, if I ever do.’
‘I think you will.’ Joy suddenly was certain that this indeed was the beginning of a new phase for them all, Lana included. Just how or in what way Quentin’s treatment was going to help she did not allow herself to stop and think, but somehow she was very certain things were going to change.
Her opinion did not alter as the days went by. Doctor Franklyn had always called once or twice each month, to check on Lana’s general health and to try yet again to urge her to make the attempt to enter once more into general living. Nurse Brown, the friendly district nurse who had served the Wilborough area which embraced Cranberry Terrace, had called regularly to give Lana her bath and to see that lying in bed and on her couch so many hours of every day she did not develop sore patches on her skin, the curse of those confined to their beds for any length of time.
Now, she found, Doctor Quentin called in every day, seldom at the same time for two days in succession, but always, before the little household went to bed at night, his car had been parked outside, sometimes for only a few minutes, sometimes, often in the evenings, for an hour or more.
By the middle of June, when Lana’s couch had been wheeled daily into the garden now bursting into a glorious mass of perfume and glowing colour, and Lana herself had begun to develop the beginnings of an attractive light tan, Joy found she was growing almost reconciled to the fact that Doctor Quentin was paying court to her sister, although Lana, having asked many questions and memorized the answers, about the difficulties of being the wife of a busy general practitioner, and about the income and outgo of a shared practice such as Quentin had with his father, certainly offered him little encouragement.
‘She’s friendly and polite enough,’ Joy mused one afternoon when she was off duty, ‘but nothing more. And I’m not certain I can see any great improvement in her
‘He said to tell you his diagnosis was correct,’ Lana reported suspiciously. ‘Just what did he mean by that? Does that mean I have to go into hospital again? He left a note for you ... over there.’ She pointed with one long, slender finger with its freshly painted nail.
‘Thanks.’ She ripped open the envelope and drew forth the single sheet of notepaper covered in a surprisingly clear and readable handwriting. It did not take many minutes to read the brief note, then she glanced across to where Lana was watching, openly suspicious of Quentin’s verdict.
‘Well?’ Lana demanded as Joy still stared at the unmistakable signature ‘Always yours, Quentin’. With an effort she pulled herself together and told herself not to be idiotic enough as to read meanings into things which were probably never intended. Maybe, since he was such a naturally friendly person, this was his customary method of signing letters which were personal rather than purely of business purpose.
‘Doctor Quentin simply says he agrees with the specialist opinion and that a physiotherapist, a Miss Amy Calvin, will call here two mornings each week, beginning in the morning. Also a masseur, a Mr. Hugh Tate, will call twice each week from now onwards, beginning the day after tomorrow, and that in a few weeks’ time you should be able to attend the outpatients’ department at St Lucy’s, so,’ she added more to herself than to Lana who had apparently lost interest once she knew the verdict upon herself, ‘I shall have to get my little car as quickly as possible and try and get enough lessons in to pass the test before you start there!’
‘If Doctor Quentin and his father have as much influence as all that,’ Lana retorted crisply, ‘then I don’t see why an ambulance can’t come for me when I start with the clinic, if I ever do.’
‘I think you will.’ Joy suddenly was certain that this indeed was the beginning of a new phase for them all, Lana included. Just how or in what way Quentin’s treatment was going to help she did not allow herself to stop and think, but somehow she was very certain things were going to change.
Her opinion did not alter as the days went by. Doctor Franklyn had always called once or twice each month, to check on Lana’s general health and to try yet again to urge her to make the attempt to enter once more into general living. Nurse Brown, the friendly district nurse who had served the Wilborough area which embraced Cranberry Terrace, had called regularly to give Lana her bath and to see that lying in bed and on her couch so many hours of every day she did not develop sore patches on her skin, the curse of those confined to their beds for any length of time.
Now, she found, Doctor Quentin called in every day, seldom at the same time for two days in succession, but always, before the little household went to bed at night, his car had been parked outside, sometimes for only a few minutes, sometimes, often in the evenings, for an hour or more.
By the middle of June, when Lana’s couch had been wheeled daily into the garden now bursting into a glorious mass of perfume and glowing colour, and Lana herself had begun to develop the beginnings of an attractive light tan, Joy found she was growing almost reconciled to the fact that Doctor Quentin was paying court to her sister, although Lana, having asked many questions and memorized the answers, about the difficulties of being the wife of a busy general practitioner, and about the income and outgo of a shared practice such as Quentin had with his father, certainly offered him little encouragement.
‘She’s friendly and polite enough,’ Joy mused one afternoon when she was off duty, ‘but nothing more. And I’m not certain I can see any great improvement in her
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