A Weekend in The Garden (The Jason Trilogy Book 2) by Lucilla Andrews

Author:Lucilla Andrews [Andrews, Lucilla]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: nursing, nurses, hospital, romance, doctors, 1950s
Publisher: Corazon Books (Doctors and Nurses)
Published: 2017-10-18T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

‘If you’re wanting the vicar, young man, you’re wasting your time ringing that thing!’

A small self-derisive smile lit MacDonald’s eyes as he turned from the vicarage front door bell he had just pressed three times. It was a long time since he’d been addressed as ‘young man’ and a few seconds since he had reminded himself he was over forty. The tiny white-haired speaker looked over seventy, frail as a bird, and carried a large gardening trug equipped with implements and watering can. ‘Thank you, but ‒’

‘If you’re wanting Mrs Weston, utterly wasting your time. She’s still at the Fair ‒ I know ‒ just left her. The vicar took himself off some while back. He must be in as that outer door’s open. Undoubtedly working on his sermon. Bit deaf, poor man, and works so hard on his sermons. Total waste of time. An excellent parish priest but no preacher. His sermons are our penance. Good for our souls. If you’re seeking his attention what you have to do is walk into the hall and give his study door a good hard wallop. That front door’s unlocked. We don’t lock up our houses down here. The study’s the middle room across the hall. Remember, a good hard wallop.’

He grinned. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘No trouble, young man. You’ll forgive my not lingering. Have to see to my people.’ She waved at the churchyard. ‘If I don’t come once a week in this season the jungle takes over ‒ eleven to see to ‒ I’ll make the round dozen and then the jungle will take over. Last one and I was always considered the delicate one. Ninety next birthday.’ His genuine response delighted her. She flitted off chuckling to herself and disappeared through a side lychgate into the churchyard. He waited a few more seconds then rang the bell again. He had underestimated the traffic. The short drive from the hospital had taken so long it was already twenty-past six. Presumably, she’d over-slept. He kept his finger on the bell. Useless. He’d have to disturb the sermon. He opened the dark-brown glass-panelled door and went in.

The cool dimness of the hall and the smell of floor and brass polish, dusty hymn books and old clothes evoked an immediate memory of a long-forgotten school holiday in a Manse. There were the same aged cardboard boxes holding jumble awaiting the next sale under the heavy hall table that was covered with the same green-baize bobbled cloth spread with neat piles of leaflets awaiting collection and distribution by church workers. He could almost see the old Minister coming out of his study, ‘You’ll be George, my young cousin Ian MacDonald’s laddie. You’re welcome to my house. Have you scraped the mud from the soles of your boots?’

He dismissed the past, took a long look at the threadbare carpet of the stairs that as in The Garden ran up from the back of the hall and were of oak, but much less grandiose, and the shine on the scratched banisters looked to owe more to sliding children than wax polish.

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