said, and her mother had grinned teasingly. She still had all her own teeth, small, neat, whitish, just as she had the same trim, healthy figure she had had all Miranda’s life. Dorothy took care of herself; ate a lot of fruit and vegetables, drank the odd glass of wine, walked a lot, swam, was always busy working either in her small house, or out in the garden.
‘Am I right, or am I wrong?’ Mum had demanded.
‘It’s your life,’ Miranda had shrugged. ‘How do I know if you’re right or wrong?’
‘Oh, I’m right. To paraphrase Jean Jacques Rousseau, women are born free and everywhere they are in chains. Even worse, they seem to like it that way. Well, not me. I’ve been married. I don’t want to put the chains back on again.’
‘But you loved Dad, didn’t you? I don’t remember him as some sort of tyrant.’
‘No, of course not, but I was still a prisoner, of you as much as your dad. Duty is the worst prison of them all, don’t forget that. When you have a husband and children, you’re never free. But now I can get up when I like, go to bed when I like, do what I like.’
‘What are you smiling at?’ Nurse Embry asked as she tidied the coverlet on the bed.
‘Something my mother once said to me.’
‘She lives alone? Your dad . . .’
‘Died. You haven’t told me yet exactly what my injuries are.’
‘Your right ankle is broken, that’s why it’s in plaster. That will take a while to heal, I’m afraid. You’ve strained your right wrist, that must have been when you fell, you would have put your hand out to stop yourself. You’ve got superficial cuts and bruises to your head, hence the bandages – but you haven’t got concussion or any serious injury.’
Frowning, Miranda said, ‘Well, that doesn’t sound too bad – I thought it might be worse.’
‘You sound almost disappointed!’ Nurse Embry grinned at her. ‘It’s bad enough, surely!’
Miranda smiled back at her. ‘I’m relieved, believe me!’
A woman in a bed on the other side of the ward raised her head and called, ‘Nurse . . . nurse . . . I feel sick!’
Nurse Embry hurried over there. Miranda closed her eyes and drifted away into a dream about the Dorset garden; the clove-like scent of old-fashioned, frilly petalled pinks, a thrush picking up a snail and smashing it down on the rockery, the sound of the wind in the lime tree, and her mother wandering about clipping and weeding.
At lunchtime next day she was eating a small chicken salad when a man walked up to her bed, drew up a chair and sat down. The other women in the ward watched curiously. One of them bridled and said pointedly, ‘This isn’t visiting time, you know.’
The man ignored the comment. One of the nurses came into the ward and the other patients all watched avidly as she went over to Miranda’s bed, expecting the visitor to be turned out. Instead the nurse drew the curtains around Miranda’s bed and murmured, ‘Now, I told you, you can only stay for a little while.’
Miranda stared at the visitor who smiled.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You remember me, don’t you? Sergeant Maddrell, Neil Maddrell. I interviewed you a couple of days ago.’
She flinched back against her pillows, reminded sharply of what she only wanted to forget. She had barely taken in what he looked like, but now she realised she did remember him. What was he doing here? Had he come to give her another chilly warning about wasting police time?
‘I’m sorry to hear about your accident. I’ve talked to your doctor and heard about your injuries. I’m afraid you’ll be stuck in bed for a while. That will be boring for you, but at least you’re being well looked after and you can have a good rest in here. You look as if you need one.’
His face was angular, a sculptured mask, the skin pulled tight over the bones and framed in straight, dark hair. His eyes were sharp and intelligent, bright hazel. He wasn’t good-looking, yet he was attractive, she liked looking
‘Am I right, or am I wrong?’ Mum had demanded.
‘It’s your life,’ Miranda had shrugged. ‘How do I know if you’re right or wrong?’
‘Oh, I’m right. To paraphrase Jean Jacques Rousseau, women are born free and everywhere they are in chains. Even worse, they seem to like it that way. Well, not me. I’ve been married. I don’t want to put the chains back on again.’
‘But you loved Dad, didn’t you? I don’t remember him as some sort of tyrant.’
‘No, of course not, but I was still a prisoner, of you as much as your dad. Duty is the worst prison of them all, don’t forget that. When you have a husband and children, you’re never free. But now I can get up when I like, go to bed when I like, do what I like.’
‘What are you smiling at?’ Nurse Embry asked as she tidied the coverlet on the bed.
‘Something my mother once said to me.’
‘She lives alone? Your dad . . .’
‘Died. You haven’t told me yet exactly what my injuries are.’
‘Your right ankle is broken, that’s why it’s in plaster. That will take a while to heal, I’m afraid. You’ve strained your right wrist, that must have been when you fell, you would have put your hand out to stop yourself. You’ve got superficial cuts and bruises to your head, hence the bandages – but you haven’t got concussion or any serious injury.’
Frowning, Miranda said, ‘Well, that doesn’t sound too bad – I thought it might be worse.’
‘You sound almost disappointed!’ Nurse Embry grinned at her. ‘It’s bad enough, surely!’
Miranda smiled back at her. ‘I’m relieved, believe me!’
A woman in a bed on the other side of the ward raised her head and called, ‘Nurse . . . nurse . . . I feel sick!’
Nurse Embry hurried over there. Miranda closed her eyes and drifted away into a dream about the Dorset garden; the clove-like scent of old-fashioned, frilly petalled pinks, a thrush picking up a snail and smashing it down on the rockery, the sound of the wind in the lime tree, and her mother wandering about clipping and weeding.
At lunchtime next day she was eating a small chicken salad when a man walked up to her bed, drew up a chair and sat down. The other women in the ward watched curiously. One of them bridled and said pointedly, ‘This isn’t visiting time, you know.’
The man ignored the comment. One of the nurses came into the ward and the other patients all watched avidly as she went over to Miranda’s bed, expecting the visitor to be turned out. Instead the nurse drew the curtains around Miranda’s bed and murmured, ‘Now, I told you, you can only stay for a little while.’
Miranda stared at the visitor who smiled.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You remember me, don’t you? Sergeant Maddrell, Neil Maddrell. I interviewed you a couple of days ago.’
She flinched back against her pillows, reminded sharply of what she only wanted to forget. She had barely taken in what he looked like, but now she realised she did remember him. What was he doing here? Had he come to give her another chilly warning about wasting police time?
‘I’m sorry to hear about your accident. I’ve talked to your doctor and heard about your injuries. I’m afraid you’ll be stuck in bed for a while. That will be boring for you, but at least you’re being well looked after and you can have a good rest in here. You look as if you need one.’
His face was angular, a sculptured mask, the skin pulled tight over the bones and framed in straight, dark hair. His eyes were sharp and intelligent, bright hazel. He wasn’t good-looking, yet he was attractive, she liked looking
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