Free Growing Into Medicine by Ruth Skrine Page A

backed towards us. The two businessmen inside had growing families of their own and were amused by the cheek of our trip. The studs of our boots left indents in the deep pile of the fitted carpet.
    They drove us 148 miles, with a comfortable stop for a three-course meal. I was embarrassed by their generosity, which was altruistic with no sexual innuendo. I believed that the only way we could repay all such kindness was to encourage the drivers to talk, if they wanted to, and listen to their life stories. Showing interest was no hardship. The different lives I had glimpsed when visiting patients with my father had left me thirsty for contact with different sorts of people.
    At last our route diverged from that of the Bentley and we clambered out. As soon as it had disappeared round a bend in the road we took out the remains of our buns, searching our pockets for the shredded morsels. We were both eighteen but must have been growing still for despite the large meal we were hungry again.
    After the restrictions of boarding school the freedom at university was heady. Despite the possibility of a widening social life I hated tohave any commitments at the weekends and used any excuse to keep both days empty. I would walk alone to the centre of Bristol, where the buses started for the surrounding countryside. I took no notice of the destination written on the front but leapt onto the first one with its engine running. I always bought a ticket to the end of the line. When I got off I wandered wherever my feet took me with no interest in maps or making a plan. I wanted to be open to ‘adventures’. Any chance encounter with a horse, a postman or an old woman in a cottage helped to ease the constricting ache that had built up during the years of confinement. It was not too difficult to find a bus or train, or even to hitch-hike back to the city. These excursions were tame flickers of a candle compared to the flashing neon signs of today’s adolescent global travellers.
    One day I got off at Brislington and followed a footpath to the river Avon where I found a rusty bell. I struck it with a piece of iron hanging by the side. In due course a man in a rowing boat arrived to ferry me across, demanding a few pence in payment.
    Ever since my excursions on the river with my parents and grandparents I have loved rivers. Perhaps this was because those family holidays had been particularly happy times for my mother, and I was always sensitive to her moods. Now I had found my own river and a unique way of getting across. I was already composing a story to tell her, hoping to impress her as much by my escapades as those of my sister.
    On the other side of the water a pub stood with its door open. I had never been in a pub by myself before but mustered my courage and went in to order a sandwich. It was not full of rowdy men, as I had feared. The bread was stale but I was so hungry that seemed unimportant. Afterwards I walked along the bank. Suddenly I saw something swimming in the water. Its flat head and sinuous, silvery body below the water convinced me it was an otter, though I had never seen one. All thought of my mother vanished, as I became absorbed in stalking it along the side of the river across two fields. I watched it moving from one side to the other, feeling that ineffable lift of the spirit that occasionally fills my being. The emotion isprivate, perhaps nearest to the essence of me, quite separate from any need to please my parents or anyone else.
    Such moments are rare and cannot be produced by an effort of will. They only arrive in response to some natural beauty and only when I am alone. After my husband died they deserted me for several years. I feared the loss would last forever. Then one day I was driving along the A46 from Bath to the M4. At the top of Swainswick hill the view across a wide valley drew my eyes. There had been a heavy hoarfrost. Every twig and blade of grass was shimmering in the new-risen sun. Marion Milner,