Soup and a Smile

He opened the door very carefully, trying not to make any noise. He didn't want to be accused of prying into other people's business, but he did want to be able to go back to sleep without be disturbed by unruly children in the middle of the night.

A blast of cold air hit him as he peered at the stairs in front of him. They appeared to be solid enough. A pale light flickered at the top of the stairs and once more he thought he heard voices. Treading gingerly on each step, Allan made his way to the top of the attic stairs.

The attic was a long, single room lit by moonlight from two dormer windows. The flickering lights were sets of candles grouped together on the floor and on various shelves. Jo was sitting on a low chair, her face bathed in a shining light seeming to come from within, rather than a reflection of the candle flames.

"Hello!" he called, not wanting to startle her. Then he realised Jo had her eyes closed. She made no movement in response to his greeting.

Allan shivered. It was freezing up here! He noticed both windows were wide open. A bitter wind was blowing into the attic. Whatever was she thinking about sitting up here with the windows open and no apparent form of heating? He called her name. Jo's eyes flickered open.

"What on earth are you doing up here with the windows open?" he asked her, going across and shutting them firmly. "You must be perished!" She looked at him strangely as he returned to her side and felt her hands and face. Allan took off his dressing gown, draping it over her shoulders as he helped her to stand. She was so cold, she could hardly move.

"You kept your family well hidden," he remarked as he carefully extinguished the candles.

"I don't have a family," Jo protested. "Not any more."

"Something woke me. I thought I heard a child laughing and the sound of running feet." He looked sheepish. "I came up here to ask whoever it was to be quiet, then all I find is you with the windows wide open suffering from hypothermia!"

Jo swayed and clung to him for support. "Come on; let's get you downstairs into the warm." Allan put his arm around her and guided her down the stairs, holding her tightly when her feet stumbled on the steps. Somehow they reached the landing without either of them falling. "Are you alright?" he asked.

Jo closed her eyes and started to shiver violently.

"We'd better get you into bed." Allan helped her into her bedroom, turned back the covers and sat her down on the bed. "You just lie down and I'll wrap you up in something warm." Jo sat there like a statue, still shivering, so he lifted her legs and eased them inside the covers. Her feet were like ice and when he checked her pulse it was slow and even, as if she were deeply asleep.

Allan went to his room and retrieved his hot water bottle from the bed, filling it afresh from the bathroom tap. He wrapped it in a small hand towel and placed it at Jo's feet. She was still shivering. He looked down at her lying in the large double bed. She seemed so small and helpless. Maybe she needed looking after sometimes too. Not that he was any good at looking after people he cared about.

What on earth was he thinking? He'd only met the woman a few hours ago. Their paths would never have crossed if his car hadn't broken down. She'd been kind to him, offered him food and shelter - made him feel at home. Given him a sense of peace he hadn't felt since he didn't know when. She'd cared for him.

What was that prayer of Mother Theresa's she'd pointed out to him? "When I am hungry, give me someone I can feed. When I am thirsty, give me someone who needs a drink. When I'm cold, give me someone to keep warm. And when I grieve, give me someone to console."

Well, she was certainly cold all right, and he could keep her warm. He slipped into the bed and wrapped himself around her, bracing himself against the chill of her body. She could always ask him to leave if she didn't want him there. She said nothing. He couldn't even be sure she knew he was there. After a while, she stopped shivering and rolled over towards him, snuggling her body as close to his as she could get, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. Somehow she fitted him perfectly. He moved his hand to stroke her hair and she sighed contentedly.

"Are you feeling better?" he whispered, but she didn't answer and from her breathing he realised that she was asleep. Reaching out with his free right hand, he switched off the bedside lamp and smiled to himself in the darkness. Three years without a woman in his bed and now he had one curled up in his arms of her own volition, she'd gone to sleep on him without so much as a single kiss. He must be slipping! He yawned and closed his eyes and soon he, too drifted off into dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER THREE: Breakfast

Dawn was just breaking when Allan woke again. From her gentle breathing, he surmised his hostess was still deeply asleep, so he slid carefully from under the king-sized quilt and made his way to the bathroom. She'd said there would be plenty of water for a shower. He needed to be fully awake and alert for his presentation.

Wrapped in a large blue towel and freshly shaved, he pondered whether to dress in his suit or explore the kitchen for breakfast beforehand. His stomach growled, protesting the absence of his usual morning coffee and toast, so he compromised, pulling on his trousers and donning the worn dressing gown once more.

The cats met him in the kitchen, asking to be let out into the frost filled yard. He pulled back the heavy bolts on the scullery door and opened it for them, the freezing air almost taking his breath away. He hurried back into the warmth of the kitchen and hunted round for something to eat and drink.

His search revealed no coffee, either ground or instant, but he did find some normal looking tea which he carefully spooned into the brown china teapot and covered with the boiling water from the kettle hissing away on the range. A morning like this called for something substantial. His grandmother always made porridge when there was frost around. Internal central heating she'd called it. Yes, there were porridge oats sitting on a shelf in the larder. He pulled down the jar and carefully measured a tea-cup full into a saucepan hanging over the sink.

He tried to think what his grandmother cooked it in. He knew it was supposed to be three cupfuls of cold water, but there was something she did differently. What was it? He tried to imagine her standing by her electric cooker in the old farmhouse. What did she do next? Milk! That was it - half milk and half water. He went to the fridge and pulled out a large jug of milk. He couldn't see any bottles of milk, so he hoped he was taking the right container. Carefully he measured the milk and water into the saucepan and pulled a wooden spoon from the pot by the sink to stir it with.

The grandfather clock struck seven; Allan breathed a sigh of relief he still had plenty of time before they needed to leave. Porridge couldn't be hurried, it needed time to thicken and boil then must be stirred continuously for five minutes to stop it burning. He left it to heat and poured himself a cup of tea.

He wondered about fetching down his presentation and going through it one last time, but something stopped him. The slow ticking of the clock on the wall lulled him to more peaceful thoughts. He stared at the shape, remembering one similar in the hallway of his parents' house. It was a Viennese Regulator. He smiled to himself in congratulation at remembering the name. He reached out and stroked the black satin finish on the case- so many years of loving care shown in the polished wood.

He wished he had time to make something with his hands. Maybe next year, when the research project wound up he'd have more time. Who was he kidding? How many research projects had come and gone? He never slowed down, made time for anything other than his work. His life was his work. Or it was until last night.

Now he wanted to stay longer in this enchanted house, where time was regulated by the slow ticking of the clocks, not by any shrill alarms and mobile phones.

Bubbling noises from the saucepan brought him back to the present. He'd better stir the porridge or it would burn. With his eye on the Regulator's dial he carefully wound the wooden spoon around and around the saucepan, watching the air bubbles breaking on the surface of the porridge. He felt deeply content.

When it was cooked, he found two deep green and white bowls with dragons winding around the rims and filled them with porridge. He poured over a generous portion of cream he found in the fridge and sprinkled it liberally with sugar.

He felt like Goldilocks tasting the three bears' breakfast as he scooped up his first spoonful. It was delicious. Soon his bowl was empty. He carried the other up to Jo together with a cup of tea on a tray he found down by the side of the sink.

She was sitting up gazing out of the window at the sunrise as he knocked on the door.

"Did you sleep well?"

She looked at him and smiled. "Yes, thank you. I had the strangest dream."

"So did I," he told her, carefully placing the tray on the bed, removing the cup of tea onto the bedside table before it had a chance to spill. "I hope you don't mind, but it seemed like a porridge kind of morning."

"That's very kind of you." She smiled again. It made Allan feel warm inside, as if she brought sunshine deep inside him.

"It's the least I could do after you took me in last night."

She took a spoonful of porridge. "This is very good. Someone taught you how to make real porridge."

"My grandmother," he admitted. "Can't remember the last time I cooked it. Anyway, I'd better finish getting dressed and let you eat. How long does it take to get to Lower Slaughter from here?"

"Only ten minutes if the roads aren't too icy. I'll take you there if you'd like me to?"

"Please," Allan felt a sense of relief. "You never know how long it takes for a taxi to arrive in this weather.

Three quarters of an hour later, they were both ready to set off. Jo felt like an arctic explorer dressed in her thickest coat, boots and trousers with a warm hat covering her head. Allan was once more the suave business man in his smart suit and black raincoat.

"What is it you do again?" Jo asked as she opened the garage doors.

"I'm a clinical oncologist at Christie's in Manchester. Once this conference is over and I finalise my research, I'm moving down to Birmingham to the hospital where I did my training."

"The Queen Elizabeth?"

"No, Heartlands. They've offered me a professorial chair in the new research wing. It seemed too good a chance to pass up."

This was so strange, Jo thought, as she drove along the deserted roads towards Lower Slaughter. Ten years since she worked in that hospital, now here was someone who was about to resume working there. Not so strange, she corrected herself; it was one of the largest hospitals in the country and employed thousands of people. Why shouldn't he work there?

"I've always wanted to visit Christie's," she told Allan. "I remember a conference I went to in Leeds, years ago, before ..." she faltered for a moment, "before I left work. They were doing some wonderful work on training and supporting their medical and nursing staff in breaking bad news."

"It's never easy." He answered, then sat reading his notes. She wanted to tell him to look out at the frost covered hedges, each twig a unique white sculpture against the azure sky. In the fields, animals appeared as dark masses grazing their way through iced grass as the weak golden sun shone down on them all.

Very soon they turned on to the main road and then off it again as they came in to Lower Slaughter village. The hotel stood next to the little Cotswold church. Jo opened her mouth to tell him some of the local history, but the man who brought her breakfast in bed seemed to be subsumed by a cold, hard professional.

She drew up in front of the entrance and waited while he got out. Some words were casually thrown in her direction, but he rushed off up the steps and through the hotel door before she could say Goodbye. Jo shook her head in regret and drove off home to feed the animals.

CHAPTER FOUR: The Conference

"Dr Metcalf?" One of the conference organisers strode up to Allan and led him away to meet the other speakers. Every one was anxious to hear about his research, even more so when the presentation was over. Doctors from all over Europe wanted to discuss his theories and see whether his techniques could be introduced into their clinical settings. He felt as if he were being mobbed. All their voices seemed to merge into one and he had great difficulty concentrating on individual questions.

It wasn't until after the conference dinner, he found a quiet place in the bar and sat nursing his brandy. A grey haired man in a tweed jacket came up to Allan and asked if he could join him. Inwardly Allan groaned, but he smiled encouragingly and waved at the seat next to him.

"I see you've met our local witch," his new companion remarked as he supped his pint.

Allan looked blank. "Local witch?" he asked bemused.

"Jo Masters. She lives just outside Upper Slaughter on the Naunton Road. I saw you get out of her car as I was driving in this morning. Is she a friend of yours?"

"No, my car broke down outside her house last night and she took me in." Allan took a thoughtful sip of his brandy. "What do you mean she's your local witch? I didn't see any signs of broomsticks and black cats while I was there."

The man laughed. "You wouldn't. I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself, I'm Roger Cardew. I'm a GP in Naunton. Jo works on a sessional basis with our patients three times a week. She's a medical herbalist and healer. The patients love her because she has time to listen to them and she makes them feel good about themselves, so they don't pester us quite so much. It doesn't cost us anything because she's self-financing. Sometimes she even gets some surprisingly good results. Don't ask me how she does it, but as long as it's free and no-one complains to our masters, we're happy to let her carry on."

"She said something about being a healer, but after a four hour drive down from Manchester in the frost and fog, I'm afraid I wasn't listening very closely. She makes very good soup." Allan remembered the warmth of the living room and how comfortable he'd felt sitting by the fire with the cat purring on his knee.

Roger Cardew chuckled. "You have to watch out if she offers you soup. It usually means the world is ending. Or that's what it used to mean before she came to live down here. Jo and I were at university together. She was doing some social engineering course or something, then she got married and went to work for a campaigning group. After the kids came along, she stayed at home to look after them."

"I thought I heard children in the night, but I didn't see any," Allan told him. Roger looked at him strangely.

"Ten years ago her world did end. They were going to IKEA on the M6 and the car was mown down by one of these foreign juggernauts. Philip and the kids were killed instantly, but somehow Jo survived. She was in hospital for months while they sewed her back together again. None of us knew if she'd survive mentally. Losing Philips and the kids like that was horrific.

"I don't know how she pulled herself through it, but she did. Took herself off to Preston to do the medical herbalist course and then somehow trained as a spiritual healer at the same time. She has a counselling qualification too. She's wonderful with our bereaved patients. We wouldn't have been able to implement the gold standard for palliative care so easily if it hadn't been for her."

Allan muttered something, but his mind was in turmoil. There were no children. The voices he'd heard the previous night must have come from his dreams, yet he was sure he'd heard them after he'd woken up. The dressing gown she'd given him to wear must have been her late husband's. No wonder she'd seemed so reluctant to give it to him. What a strange setup he'd just been in. Good job he was out of it and back in the real world of science and normality.

"She's done well to get over such a tragic loss," he commented. "I'm glad you find her services useful with your patients. I've no truck with all this complementary mumbo jumbo myself. There's absolutely no research evidence for the results they claim. You really can't rely on anything which hasn't been validated by a double blind trial and no-one seems willing to set one up with a reasonable population size. I'm rather surprised you feel able to make it available on NHS premises when there's no evidence base for it."

Roger shrugged and took a long pull at his pint. "When you've been working in General Practice for as long as I have, you learn to respect the things you don't understand but which seem to work – especially if your patients benefit. Evidence based medicine is all very well when you're stuck in a cash-strapped hospital trying to justify why you can't treat everyone who comes to you, but down here in the country, we notice different things.

"Anyway, I'd better be off. There are a couple of patients I want to drop in on on my way home."

"Doesn't the out of hours service look after your people for you?"

"Oh yes, we let them sort out any new calls, but sometimes there are just one or two you want to keep an eye on yourself. Silly, I know, but it's all about being a family doctor rather than a Government employee." He stood up and shook Allan's hand.

"Glad to meet you, Dr Metcalf. Thanks again for your amazing presentation this morning. I know lots of doctors who will be sorry they missed it."

He walked off into the lobby, leaving Allan to finish his brandy alone.

CHAPTER FIVE: Return to Normality

The next morning, Allan went to reception to settle his bill and asked the clerk about a taxi to take him to pick up his car. The clerk looked behind the desk and found a message with a set of car keys in a plastic wallet.

"I believe these are yours, Dr Metcalf. The garage dropped your car off this morning while you were at breakfast." Allan thanked her and went outside to put his suitcase in the boot. He wondered if he should find somewhere with a bunch of flowers and take them back to Jo's to thank her for taking him in, but when he looked at his watch, he realised he was already running late if he wanted to be back in Manchester in time to supervise the end of the latest test results.

It was much warmer this morning and the roads were wet rather than shining with ice. Without another thought, he started the engine and turned left out of the hotel car park to make his way home.

Once back in Manchester, he soon lost himself in his work, bringing his project to a close and planning for his move down to Birmingham. His life was a blurr of meetings, labs, teaching sessions and long nights at the computer writing up and analysing the results. Once in a while, when weariness overcame him and he took off his glasses to rub tired eyes, he would imagine he felt a large cat jump up on his lap and start purring. Once or twice he even put a hand down to stroke the long fur, surprised when his fingers did not find the expected warmth.

Then he would shake his head, calling himself a fool for believing in dreams. He really did believe the night spent in Jo's house was only a dream. In his ordered world cars did not break down and he did not seek refuge overnight with a stranger. Especially not a stranger who fed him soup, then slept beside him for most of the night.

It was a dream continuing to haunt him. The move to Birmingham came and went. Now he was installed in a new office, with new students to teach and a large, flat screen monitor in front of his desk. The window looked out onto an abandoned playing field – the site of the new research wing of the hospital which he would be heading up once planning permission was granted and the capital development monies agreed.