Free The Healing Stream by Connie Monk Page B

glasses as he led the way with the tray of food. The lamplit living room, the warmth of the flickering flames of the burning logs, the none-too-neatly-folded morning paper on the couch left there as if confirmation that Giles hadn’t a natural eye for tidiness despite the effort he said he had made in readiness for her visit, all of it added to an atmosphere Tessa felt to be perfect.
    ‘It’s a lovely cottage. But, do you know, it isn’t a bit the kind of home I expected you to have,’ she said as she waited while he carried a small gate-leg table topped by the tray of food to the fireside.
    ‘And what sort of a home would that be?’ he asked, his tone making her feel childish and out of her depth.
    ‘I don’t know that I’d really given it any thought,’ she answered, determined not to give a hint of the hours of each day when he filled her mind. ‘I suppose modern, perhaps a service flat. This is homely, the sort of place that makes you want to kick off your shoes and curl up on the sofa.’
    ‘What a delightful idea. Perhaps we’ll try it after we’ve eaten our supper. More wine?’
    About to refuse, she remembered her effort to appear sophisticated. ‘Thank you. The result of our labour deserves wine.’ But she must keep control of herself. How much wine would it take to make her ‘tiddly’? She had an uncomfortable feeling that Giles could read her thoughts. ‘After we’ve eaten and cleared up the mess, will you show me your workroom?’ Then with a chuckle that escaped before she could hold it back, ‘It’s the sort of maternity ward for all my friends in Burghton.’
    ‘Labour ward might be the more accurate description. Yes, if you want to see it. But I fear my clearing up didn’t stretch that far.’
    But when, the meal eaten and the dishes washed, he opened the door leading off the living room and ushered her into what she thought of as his private sanctum, she was disappointed. It was surprisingly tidy, no papers left around, nothing to show that this was where the inhabitants of Burghton saw the light of day. The typewriter was covered and by its side a machine she couldn’t identify.
    ‘Where do you keep what you type? The room looks as though no one uses it.’ She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her tone.
    ‘The good folk of Burghton are safe in the top draw. And that, I’m afraid, is how things will be for a while. Someone from Deremouth cycles over to do my typing. I dictate on to this machine and leave it for her. Mrs Johnson has been very reliable, until this last week she’s never let me down. She lost her husband a year or so ago and must have quite a struggle to bring up their four children on her own. Now one of the brood has gone down with measles, no doubt to be followed in quick succession by the other three. So until she can come back I have no typist.’
    How could she keep the admiration out of her gaze as she looked at him? A man of national repute – national and international, she corrected herself – and yet he made no mention of getting rid of this Mrs Johnson and engaging a replacement; already Tessa had held him on a pedestal, but what he said raised him even higher.
    ‘I have an idea,’ she said, speaking even as it formed. ‘If you don’t want to engage a proper typist – and I think it’s splendid that you’d rather wait for this Mrs Johnson, who must need the work – what about if I keep your work up to date?’
    ‘You? But I thought you were a carer-oblique-friend to Deirdre. What time do you have to take on an extra job?’
    ‘This wouldn’t be a job. Don’t you see? I know Burghton as if I lived there. I told you, the folk there are like family. When I was at school I wasn’t in the really clever set – just ordinary and average. So when for the last year the really bright ones did extra maths and languages, all that sort of thing, I was with the lot who did more practical things. Typing was one of my choices. Just like in the