Saturday, Sunday.  She would see Andy again on Tuesday, in 48 hours!  Whatever happened, it mustn’t be like the beginning of the Easter holidays, when Andy had wall-to-wall family dinners.  Robert had, as expected, achieved a First in Law at Cambridge, and, in the vestry on Sunday morning, Constance was big with the news.  “He’s graduating on Wednesday.  We’re going up the night before, stay in a hotel and have dinner, with Granny and Grandad Newton.”

Oh, thought Hilary.

“We fixed all this up weeks ago!  Andy has his last exam on Tuesday morning, so we’re driving down to London to pick him up.  And Alice.  Then we’re going for a Chinese lunch.  We’re coming back here, to unload all Andy’s clobber, then we’re straight off to Cambridge.”

Oh, thought Hilary again.

“Then, at the beginning of August, we’re going to Marbella.”

Wonderful, thought Hilary.

In the meantime, Hilary was looking for a summer job.  Her first call had been the Co-op, where she had done Saturday work last year, but manageress Mrs Goddard, a member of the congregation at St Catherine's, had now retired, and the new manager said No, almost before Hilary had finished speaking.  She had no joy at the other shops in Langley Parade either.

“The village shops aren’t making any money,” said Margaret.  “People go to supermarkets in Langton and Chenham.”

“Water Langley people always go to the Co-op!” Hilary retorted. 

“Connie goes to Sainsbury’s in Langton and Julia goes to Waitrose in Chenham.  You can park right outside.”

On Monday evening, the evening before the Tuesday which was to have been the Andy day but was now just like any other, Hilary went to see Caroline who mentioned that the Langley Angel needed bar staff.  Caroline herself had a nice little job in public relations, at Wigham’s, where her father worked.  

“Andy rang,” said Margaret, when Hilary returned home late, just as her parents were going to bed.

“Oh?”  That was unusual because the only payphone at St Luke’s was generally out-of-order.  She went into the kitchen and, not having the energy to go to bed, started to read “The Daily Telegraph”.  Then the phone rang again.

“Bloody Hell!” shouted her father from upstairs.  “Who’s that?”

She ran into the living room to pick it up.  “Hil?”  Andy panted.

“What’s up?”

“Hil … I can't do it!  I really can't do it!”

“What …?”

“I can't … do … this exam!”

“You did two other exams last week.”

“Pharmacology.  I can't do pharmacology!”  Then he started coughing, and, when he tried to speak again, his coughing strangled his voice.  The payphone pips were now bleeping then the line went dead.

As she dialled back, Hilary recalled a girl at school having an asthma attack after PE, collapsing on the cloakroom bench, panting, coughing and wheezing.  The ambulance had wailed up the school drive, the girl covered with a red blanket and carried her away on a stretcher.  He was still coughing when he picked up the receiver again.  “You’ve got asthma!”

“I don't … get … asthma!” he retorted.  “Are you a bloody doctor?”

“Andy, don’t talk …”

“I'll never be a bloody doctor!” he panted.  “Five years’ training! … I can't even do the first year exams!  I can't do pharmacology … drugs … names, therapeutic uses, contra-indications …  I can't remember it all, Hilary.”

“Don’t talk.  Andy, please don’t talk!”

Silence!

“Andy, are you still there?”

“You said don’t talk,” he coughed.  “You talk.”

Hilary didn’t know what to say now.  She sensed his distress, his overwhelming distress, which was overwhelming her as well.  Just telling him he would be “all right” and “not to worry” would be inadequate.

“Hil, Hil, are you still there?”

“Yes, yes, of course I am.”

“You talk.”

“I love you, Andy.  I want to see you.  This place is empty without you.  Everybody’s got jobs, apart from me, and I can't find a job.”  She talked and talked, about everything and anything.  Glancing at the living room clock, she saw that it was now midnight, but his breathing was steadying.  She went on talking. 

“It’s so nice to hear your voice, Hil,” he said at last.

“Nice hear your voice too, but not like it was earlier.  Go to bed now, Andy.  You’re tired.”

“I’m really want to see you.”

“Me too, but tomorrow, you’re going to Cambridge, to Robert’s graduation, hotel in Cambridge and dinner.” 

“Robert’s got a bloody First, Hilary.”

“I know.  It happens.  I'm not going to get a First.  But you still love me.”

He sighed.

“Go to bed, Andy.”

“I wouldn’t sleep.”

“Yes, you will.  You’re tired,” she said.  “Goodnight.”

She was about to put down the phone.  “No, Hil, wait!  There’s something I need to tell you.  I shouldn’t be here.  I'm not good enough to be at medical school.”

“Of course you’re good enough!”

“I didn’t get my three As.” 

“Your three As?”

“Yes, you have to have three As at A Level to get into medical school, don’t you?  Well, I didn’t.  I got A for chemistry, A for biology and B for maths.”

“Andy, I didn’t get anything like that at A Level!”

“But you weren’t trying for medicine, were you?  It was awful, Hil, in the school hall on results day, everybody rushing around congratulating each other.  And I hadn't got my grades, had I?   For my first choice (Manchester) or my second (Newcastle)?  They both wanted three As, didn’t they?  The masters at the grammar school had always said I wouldn’t get into medical school, so there they were all saying, “Weeelll, Andrew .”  I just wanted to crawl into a hole.  I asked Mr Bowman, the careers master, about Clearing and he said, “Don’t be ridiculous, boy!  You can't get into medical school through Clearing?””

“But, Andy, darling, you’re OK.  You’re at St Luke's now …  How did you get to St Luke's if it wasn’t one of your UCCA choices?”

“Mum.”

“Constance?”

“She was waiting for me in the car outside school.  We went home and rang Manchester and Newcastle, just in case, but I knew what they’d say.  Manchester offered me something called “Liberal Studies in Science” and Newcastle offered me Dentistry.  I didn’t want to be a bloody dentist, Hil.  Then Mum said, “What about Clearing?” and I told her what Mr Bowman had said, but she said, “I don’t know that,” and picked up the phone to UCCA.  After a lot of phone calls, she found out that there were medical school places available through Clearing, four in Scotland and one place at St Luke's in London.  I was told to go for an interview at St Luke’s the following morning. 

“There were just two of us waiting to be interviewed at St Luke's.  The other bloke was from Eton and he had an Eton housemaster with him.  I sat there thinking, “Shit! Shit! Shit!” and how I wanted abolish all public schools!” 

“But you got the place at St Luke's and the Eton bloke didn’t.”

“We both got in, me and Nick …”

“Nick?  Nick Woolfenden?”

“Yes.  Nick and I were the last two to be admitted into the medical profession in 1973, the dregs.  We were interviewed by this scary Professor Jardine, Scots, bushy eyebrows and a tartan bow-tie.  He took us all in together, me, Nick and the Eton housemaster. He talked mostly to the Eton housemaster, then said that he might as well take both of us, because most years St Luke's “lost” a whole load of students after the exams at the end of the first term and also at the end of the first year.  You see why I'm scared, Hil?”

“Andy, you’re going to be all right.”

He sighed down the phone.

“Is Nick worrying himself silly tonight?”

“Nick’s Nick.”

“You’re Andy and I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Now go to bed.”

He rang her again, at lunchtime, from another payphone, the buzz of conversation in the background.  “I'm at a Chinese,” he said, in a weary voice,” with Mum, Dad and Alice.”

“How was the exam?”

“OK … I think.  I answered all the questions.”

“Well, there you go!”