A Few Green Leaves Read Free

which, having switched on in the middle, she was having difficulty in following. The chairman, a mild man who seemed to be in awe of the sharp-tongued woman participant, was doing his best to see that each of the men got a fair crack of the whip, as he might have put it. It was not until Emma heard him address one of them as ‘Dr Pettifer’ that she realised that this was Graham Pettifer, a man with whom she had once had a brief love affair. To say that he had been her ‘lover’ was altogether too grand a way to describe what their association had been; perhaps even ‘love affair’ was not strictly accurate, for there had not been all that much love about it, no more than proximity and a mild affection. But, anyway, it would have been true enough to say that she had once known Graham Pettifer ‘quite well’, though she had not seen him for many years. He had gone out to one of the African universities to teach something called ‘social studies’ and had now, presumably, come back, perhaps even to take up an appointment in this country?
    He must be getting on for forty now, she calculated, and he had improved in looks, filled out or something. She drained her glass, meditating on this. Then, seeing that there was still some left in the bottle, finished it. The wine was decidedly warm, rather over-chambre, Adam Prince would have said, but it gave her comfort and boldness. Hardly realising what she was doing, or marking the distinction between fact and fiction, she put a sheet of paper into her typewriter and began to compose a letter.
    ‘Dear Graham,’ it said, ‘I’ve just seen you in a TV discussion! What a great bringer-together of people who haven’t met for ages the medium must be! I’m living here (temporarily) in my mother’s cottage, so if you’ – she paused, unable to remember his wife’s christian name – ‘are anywhere in this direction, do come and see me.’ The ‘you’ could very well cover a wife and any number of children, she thought, picturing a large estate car driving up one day, filled with Graham Pettifer and his family. She hadn’t said anything about enjoying the discussion, she realised, but surely it was enough to say that she had recognised him ?
    In bed later that night she remembered that of course his wife’s name had been Claudia – she would be able to bring that out when the occasion arose. If it ever did.

3

    Monday was always a busy day at the surgery, a rather stark new building next to the village hall. ‘They’ – the patients – had not on the whole been to church the previous day, but they atoned for this by a devout attendance at the place where they expected not so much to worship, though this did come into it for a few, as to receive advice and consolation. You might talk to the rector, some would admit doubtfully, but he couldn’t give you a prescription. There was nothing in churchgoing to equal that triumphant moment when you came out of the surgery clutching the ritual scrap of paper.
    Martin Shrubsole hurried through the waiting-room, head bent, as if he expected to receive a blow. He did not want to recognise any of the patients waiting there, preferring to be taken by surprise, but he noticed two he didn’t particularly want to see – the rector’s sister, and Miss Lickerish, an elderly village eccentric. Possibly they were waiting to see Dr Gellibrand, but Martin had not heard him arrive yet so it might be that he would have to see them both.
    He went into the surgery, sat down, arranged himself in a receptive, consoling attitude and prepared to interview the patients. Miss Lickerish’s file lay on top of the desk so it looked as if she was to be first. He pressed the buzzer and she came in.
    ‘Good morning, Miss Lickerish.’ He addressed the small bent woman in her knitted cap and ancient smelly tweed coat.
    ‘Good morning, doctor ….’ It seemed as if she could hardly allow him his right to the title, but although he was not much over