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come over,’ she said, trying to speak lightly.
    Paul rolled his eyes. ‘Knowing him, he probably will, all nudge, nudge, wink, wink—’
    Oh, no, I just couldn’t bear it, thought Shelagh, hardly able to cut into the fish with parsley sauce, for which she had lost all appetite. And in front of that supercilious Sister Dickenson, it was just too awful.
    ‘Please don’t look in their direction, Paul.’
    A roar of welcome went up from the threesome as a latecomer joined them, sitting down beside Laurie and kissing her apologetically. She smiled up at him, and Shelagh caught herself staring at them. So they were a foursome, with McDowall partnering Tanya who seemed to be returning his teasing banter with much amusement.
    ‘Roger, old sport, so you’ve come to join us after all!’ said McDowall. ‘It’s been hard work for me, keeping Laurie satisfied as well as Tanya!’ More laughter.
    ‘Do you recognise the late arrival?’ asked Paul. ‘I don’t. Is he at Everham Park?’
    ‘Sometimes,’ muttered Shelagh. ‘He’s Roger Stedman, a freelance photographer, and comes to Maternity to take photos of the newborns. They’re quite good, actually.’
    Suddenly a sensation of utter weariness descended on her, and she could eat no more. She declined the dessert, and only accepted coffee because Paul ordered it. Her head swam, and the jolly foursome and all the other diners receded into a grey mist: she could not follow what Paul was saying, and longed only for the peace and privacy of her home and bed.
    ‘Let’s go, Paul. Please, let’s go.’
    ‘Darling, what’s the matter? You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’
    ‘I’m all right, except that I’m so tired, and it’s going to be a long day tomorrow.’
    ‘All right, I’ll take you straight home. Here’s your jacket, and I’ll go and pay the bill. Wait for just a minute.’
    She sat there taking deep breaths to clear her head and ward off nausea until he returned and took her arm to lead her out of the restaurant and to his red Saab in the car park. Little was said on the journeyhome, and when they reached Alexandra Road, he helped her out and escorted her to the front door.
    ‘I’m so sorry, Paul. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll say goodnight here.’
    ‘Goodnight, darling. I’m sorry too, but never mind. We should have settled for baked beans on toast after all! Get a good night’s sleep, and you’ll be better after your mum’s had her op.’
    They kissed briefly, and she went in and closed the door, utterly relieved to be home and alone. What a disaster of an evening, and what bad luck about McDowall and his friends. What on earth must they think of such an uncaring daughter?
Damnation
.
    Paul drove back to the house in North Camp that he rented with two male medical colleagues and a laboratory technician. What a disaster of an evening. It had been a mistake, and any hopes he had cherished of extending it in the privacy of her little place for an hour or two were well and truly scuttled.
Bugger
.

CHAPTER THREE
    Winter 1962–1963
    ‘Caput apri defero
Reddens laudes Domino!’
    The high, clear notes rose up in the still air of St Matthew’s church, to lose themselves in the dark vaulted ceiling. On any other cold November evening the place would have been silent and empty, but tonight a single electric light beamed down on the Sunday-school piano at which sat Jeremy North, his long fingers on the keys as he accompanied the singer.
    ‘You have the most beautiful voice, Iris – you should have been a concert soloist,’ he said when the last echo had died away. ‘They’re going to have to learn the “Boar’s Head Carol”, so as to sing the refrain while you take the verses.’
    Iris did not reply, but trembled inside her quiltedjacket and fur-trimmed hood. He had asked her to come ten minutes early, to try out the ‘Boar’s Head’, and the time had passed all too quickly before the west door opened and in came the rest of them, gathering