'Lovely.'

'Dr Petty sees a few private patients. We cover two hostels for the homeless, there are refugees coming and going, bit of TB, a few needle users, Hep B, AIDS...' She trailed off and their eyes met. Clearly Fran's gossip channel went both ways. 'I'm sorry about your friend,' she said.

'Thanks.' They sat in silence for a few moments, obviously both wondering the same thing. 'Perhaps...' said Spencer, struck by a thought, ' if you tell me what you already know about me and I tell you what I already know about you which is very little,' he added hastily, seeing her look of alarm. 'For instance, I know you've got identical twins. Public knowledge?'

She relaxed a little and nodded. 'They're nearly six foot five, I'd have a job keeping them secret.'

'Your go,' he said.

'All right.' She thought for a moment. 'I know you recently killed over a hundred snails single-handed.' He shrugged modestly. 'Oh, and you were once an art student.'

'Only for a year. I was hopeless I packed it in, decided to follow the family trade. I still can't draw hands. Actually ' he suddenly remembered ' I know that you went to medical school. That's right, isn't it?'

'Mmm.' It was an unenthusiastic a.s.sent. 'Only for a couple of terms, though.'

'Why did you give up?'

She looked at him. 'I was pregnant with twins.'

'Oh I see,' he said, feeling stupid. There was a pause. 'Your turn again,' he said.

'All right. Well...' She seemed to gather herself up. 'I do know that you're gay. I mean... I wanted to ask you. Is that public knowledge?'

He hesitated, hating the ugly, anxious gap between the closet and the world, the jump with no clear landing. Mark, who at fifteen had whipped open the door of his own closet and started giving guided tours, had once suggested that he try the other exit, push his way out through the back. 'You could check out how they treat gays in Narnia. That Mr Tumnus is definitely a poof.'

'Sort of public,' he said, at last. 'It's just that being out and being a doctor's quite a a statement. I like to choose who I tell I mean, I wouldn't lie if someone asked but I'm not going to hire a tannoy...' He felt craven, but she nodded understandingly.

'All right,' she said, 'your turn. No, actually, no. Sorry.' She shook her head and started to go pink.

'What's the matter?'

'It's just let's not do this any more. It's all a bit too much like some awful game show. Besides, there's only one thing I ever told Fran which I'd rather she'd kept to herself, and I'm sure you know that already. It's long past being a secret.'

'About your dad?'

'And Mrs McHugh. Yes.'

'Tammy,' he said in a cod Scottish accent, to make her smile.

She didn't. 'Yes. I know Fran thought it was funny, but I've had rather a sense of humour failure about it. Sorry.'

He was embarra.s.sed. 'No, I'm sorry.'

'Well, anyway...' The pinkness was fading, but she still looked unhappy. 'That's it, really, for secrets. And on my side, apart from knowing about your friend '

'Mark wasn't a secret,' said Spencer. His voice sounded harsh, even to himself. 'He didn't hide away somewhere, we didn't talk about him in whispers. He had AIDS, he died of AIDS. Anyway he was much too loud and bossy to be a secret.' He took a swig of tea, and then another to ease the sudden ache in his throat.

There was an awful silence, punctuated only by a richly phlegm-laden cough from the waiting room. 'I didn't mean ' Iris began, looking stricken, and Spencer could have slapped himself.

'Oh G.o.d,' he said, 'I'm so sorry. Just ignore me, I'm sounding like a tetchy old queen.'

'No, really '

'Really. That was such a terrible idea, possibly one of the worst ideas I've ever had. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" I mean, what an awful way to get to know someone...'

'It doesn't matter,' she said. 'Honestly.'

'G.o.d.' He shook his head. 'Perhaps I should just leave the room and come in again. We could start from scratch, from a baseline of polite acquaintanceship.' He set down his mug too firmly, and a bit of tea slopped over the side onto his pristine cuff. 'Oh b.u.g.g.e.r.'

'I'll get a cloth.' She was on her feet straight away, rinsing out a j-cloth at the sink.

'Or maybe we could pretend we've never met before and make up an entire history it could be quite liberating. I could say I was born in a trunk, mother in panto, father a balloon-folder specializing in giraf oh, thanks.' He took the cloth from her and dabbed fruitlessly at the orange stain for a while.

'I made the tea too strong,' she said. 'You'll never get it out.'

'No, no I've got some bleach at home. It'll be fine.'

'Really?'

'Iris, it was my fault not yours. And I've got loads of other shirts.'

She started to say something and then checked herself.

'Sorry?'

'I was going to say '

'What?'

'Fifty. I've heard you've got fifty other shirts.'

He stared at her for a moment and then started to laugh. 'My G.o.d, now that is a secret. Fran told you that?'

'You mean it's true?'

'Well... give or take a couple.' Fran had once insisted on counting them and had arrived at the figure of fifty-two. He had not told her about the five in the linen basket.

Iris shook her head in apparent wonder. 'And are they crease-proof?'

'Nylon?' he said horrified. 'Iris, I'm gay. I iron therefore I am.'

There was a sharp knock and he turned to see Ayesha standing in the doorway, the fluorescent light catching her nosestud so it looked like a luminous zit. 'Am I interrupting anything?' she asked, brightly. Round the half-open door came the loud, liquid cough that Spencer had heard earlier.

'No, we were just chatting,' said Iris. She smoothed her skirt and looked suddenly official.

'Only Dr Petty just rang and said he's sorry, Dr Spencer, but he's in the garage with an exhaust problem so he won't be back before six. And also he said to tell you, Iris, that he's found the invitation in the glove apartment. Oh and that glue man's back in the surgery and three patients have walked out already. I've told Dr Steiner but he didn't take no notice. All right?' she c.o.c.ked her head as if speaking to a pair of six-year-olds, and then closed the door again.

Iris sighed. 'Well that was a waste of an afternoon.'

Spencer's thumbs were p.r.i.c.king. 'Who was it she meant by the glue man?' he asked tentatively. He already knew the answer.

Less than half an hour before, the patients in the waiting room had been seated randomly, odd s.p.a.ces between them; now they were all crammed at one end, and at the other, like an unexploded bomb, sat Callum Strang. He appeared to be asleep, his head resting against the wall and his legs spread loosely, revealing an unzipped fly and an expanse of crusted red y-front. The tattoo was less noticeable than usual, being half-camouflaged by a row of steri-strips that held a ragged cut together. Disgust and UHU saturated the air.

'How long has he been coming here?' whispered Spencer. It was a while since Callum had been in Casualty; on the last occasion he'd been plucked off the street with hypothermia, and actually admitted to a ward. He'd scarpered less than twelve hours later, taking with him thirty quid and a tube of glue from the nurses' station.

'A few weeks,' said Iris. 'He's registered at a local hostel. Dov actually runs a weekly clinic there, but he keeps turning up at surgery.'

'About his chest?'

'About his tattoo. It takes ages to turf him out again.'

'My husband says I shouldn't have to deal with people like him, he says it's not part of my job description,' said Ayesha, viciously turning the pages of the appointment book. 'We should get the police in to chuck him out.'

At the word 'police', Callum's eyes opened and Spencer found himself actually cringing in an attempt to avoid being spotted.

'Dr Carroll!' The words were spoken with delight.

'It's Dr Spencer,' said Ayesha, censoriously, 'and you haven't got no appointment.'

'f.u.c.k appointments,' said Callum, levering himself to his feet. He walked stiffly over to the desk, the smell preceding him like a fanfare.

'The police can get here in three minutes,' said Ayesha, her hand hovering above the phone.

'No, don't call them. I'm sorry for swearing. I am. Honest ' he swayed forward and peered at her name badge ' Ashley.'

'It's Mrs Pershaw,' said Ayesha, leaning back as far as possible.

'Right. But I jus' wanted to say h.e.l.lo to this doctor, because he's the best f.u.c.king doctor ever. Sorry to swear but he f.u.c.king is.' He punched Spencer matily on the arm.

'h.e.l.lo, Callum,' said Spencer, depressed. He was aware of the rapt attention of the entire waiting room.

'Will you look at my head?' He started fumbling with the dressing.

'Not just now,' said Spencer. 'How did you get the cut?'

'I did it with a tin opener.'

A Mexican wave of revolted whispers flowed along the row of seats.

'Best f.u.c.king doctor ever,' said Callum again, this time as a general announcement. 'He's the one I want to see. No offence to the robot man what's he called, Stainer? but I want to see this man.'

'Dr Carroll's just going,' said Iris, quickly. 'He was only on a visit, he's not working here.'

Spencer shot her a grateful look.

'Until February the first,' added Ayesha, as if Iris had just said something rather stupid. 'Then he's working here. Then you can come back.' She closed the appointments book with a snap and turned to Spencer. 'That's right, isn't it, Dr Spencer?'

13.

The precipitation that rattled softly against the cla.s.sroom window wasn't really snow the tiny white flakes were actually jagged pieces of ice which stung when they hit bare skin but it looked enough like snow to have utterly distracted a cla.s.s of ten-year-olds who were supposed to be engaged in botany-related artwork. Heads were craned towards the window, voices more usually dripping with infant ennui raised in thrilled speculation about sledging and death by frostbite.

'Will we be snowed in all night, Miss?' asked a small girl, hope in her voice.

'All right' said Fran, bowing to the inevitable. 'Put the tops back on the paint pots very carefully ' she watched hawkishly while this was done ' and now slowly and without running you can go over to the window and have a look.'

There was immediate chaos, twenty-two chairs shoved backwards in unison, twenty-two voices raised in instant conversation. Fran stood aside as they stampeded past. It had been too cold to take the cla.s.s outside, and instead she had been supervising the creation of a Christmas frieze, messily involving gold and silver paint and a couple of bin bags full of autumn leaves, dried and kept for this very purpose. She was not particularly happy with the result so far the paint was too runny and, far from festively ill.u.s.trating their delicate skeletal structure, the frieze was a jumble of leaf-shaped blotches and unintentional fingerprints. This was partly the fault of the children's own teacher, a self-styled art expert who had urged her to let the cla.s.s experiment with the correct thickness of paint ('it's important for them to grasp the point of your request') and then abdicated all responsibility for the ensuing mess ('it was just a suggestion'). He was sitting in the corner now, flipping through a copy of British Trees and looking bored.

Fran joined the children by the window.

Through the icy rain, the farm looked bleak and shuttered. Hagwood was battening down the hatches for winter, stepping up its provision of indoor activities and laying off part-time staff. Porky was the only visible animal, standing by his trough with his ears blowing in front of him like pennants. As she watched he took an excited step forward, snout raised, and a few seconds later Barry came round the corner of the hen house with a laden bucket, his head dipped against the wind.

'That man's going to feed the pig,' said Fran, ever alert for educational possibilities.

'What man?'

'What's he going to give him?'

'What pig?'

'He's going to give him some hard little chunks, a bit like biscuits but not sweet. They're called pig nuts and they're very crunchy and full of vitamins.'

As she spoke, Barry slipped in a patch of mud and fell over, distributing pig nuts over a wide area. There was a shout of delighted laughter from the cla.s.s and he looked up to see twenty-three pairs of eyes watching his ignominy. Fran turned away and clapped her hands.

'OK, let's get back to work.'

'Oh Miss, we want to see him pick them all up.'

'No, we've had a break now so let's get back to work. We've only got twenty minutes before you go back to the coach.'

'Ohhhhh.'

As they meandered back to the tables, she kept half an eye on the window. The hail was getting stronger, sweeping up the hill in successive curtains, alternately obscuring and revealing the cars on the flyover. Barry, plastered in mud, had abandoned the spilled feed and was tramping back to the store for another load, leaving Porky making anxious little runs up and down the sty.

It was three weeks since she had told Barry straightforwardly, efficiently that she was not and never would be interested. They had been labelling jars of wild-flower seed at the time, and Barry had gone very quiet, printing and peeling labels in doleful silence and she discovered afterwards sticking most of them on upside down. 'Is there anyone else?' he'd asked, after a while, and for once Duncan had come in handy; with only a slight adjustment of reality she was able to cast him in the role of Odysseus, for whom she was patiently waiting, forswearing all others. Barry had glumly accepted this, and although she had half expected him to revert to his old, lazy, complacent self, he had to his credit kept up a modic.u.m of the new dynamism. He was, however, still fairly useless and while it was true that any member of staff could have been unlucky enough to fall flat on their face in front of a score of children, the odds would always be on Barry.

The children had settled back into their chairs, and Fran glanced at the clock; there was just enough time for a final stab at accuracy.

'Right, now I want you to make up one last mix of paint, but only after you've listened very carefully to my instructions. Pick up the little powder scoop and fill it as far as the second mark. Which mark did I say?'

'THE SECOND MARK,' droned the cla.s.s in ragged unison. Over in the corner, their teacher shrugged disapprovingly.