Second Opinion by Claire Rayner Page B

for George’s syringe.
    They worked in silence though the baby whimpered from time to time, and again Prudence made that odd little sound that seemed to comfort him. When she’d finished George straightened her back and carefully marked the bottles and slipped them into her white coat pocket. ‘We’d better clean the gear ourselves,’ she said. ‘Just in case.’
    Prudence nodded. ‘You can leave that to me. I’ll be very careful. Urn — you’ll send the report to me as soon as possible? I’d like to sort it out before, well, before I go off duty tonight’
    George shook her head. ‘No can do. Some of the HIV work takes rather longer to do. A couple of days or so.’
    ‘Not all of it, though?’
    ‘No, not all of it. I can give you some answers tonight’ She was suddenly aware of what it was that was making Prudence so edgy, and she laughed. ‘I’ve just realized. You want an answer before Miss Kydd gets back. Where is she?’
    Prudence grimaced. ‘Lecturing somewhere. She’ll be here tomorrow maybe, the day after for certain. And I have to say — well — yes. You know how she can sneer at you if you get it wrong. I may be way out on this, so I don’t want to let Susan know that. If I’m right, of course, it’ll be different.’
    ‘She’ll pat your little head and you’ll grow, grow, grow, blossom,’ George said as she made for the door and Prudence laughed.
    ‘Something like that. Thanks for your help, Dr Barnabas.’
    ‘Call me George, for God’s sake,’ George said and went, hurrying past the nurse sitting at her desk, so that she couldn’t ask any awkward questions, though she was clearlypoised to do so, and getting back to her lab as fast as she could. It would, as she had told Prudence, take some days before all the results could be collated, but the sooner she started the better.
    By the time she’d done the preliminary work and then sorted out the things she should have done that morning, it was well past seven-thirty. She stretched and reached for the phone. Her mother and Bridget must be bored out of their skulls waiting for her, she thought guiltily, dialling her own number. But it rang and rang interminably before she hung up, a thin line between her brows. Where on earth could they be? She’d have to hurry home to see what was happening, and she pulled on her coat and left, painfully aware, yet again, of how complicated it was to have the two of them as house guests. ‘Oh, God,’ she said to the yellowish glow in the night sky over the river. ‘Hurry on January. The sooner Christmas is over and done with and I’m on my own again, the better.’

8
    
    They were out when she got home, having left a note in Bridget’s familiar back-sloping handwriting. ‘Back soon, honey, just wanted to check on the neighbourhood. Hope you had a good day. We slept like babies, feel much better. B.’
    That gave her time to make sure the flat was shining clean, and when she looked about at the bright scatter rugs against the crimson carpet and the vivid cushions on the new leather studio couch, on which she herself was having to sleep while they were with her, and the flames from the pretend-log gas fire she had indulged in, trying to see it through their eyes, she was content enough. It was, after all, only a flat in a crowded city — far more crowded than any they had lived in, and that being so, she had no need to feel ashamed. By the time they came back, pink about the nose and ears from the chill, she had supper ready; a rich daube of beef and plenty of vegetables; it was easy to do and had enough red wine in it to make it taste more effortful than it had been, and would, she thought, impress them both.
    It didn’t They ate little, professing it to be delicious, but too much for their capricious appetites, and she put the remainder in a plastic pot and wondered gloomily whether to dump it now or clutter up the fridge for a week and then put it in the garbage. Again guilt gave way