The next day, Andy returned to St Luke's and Hilary worked her shift at the pub as usual.  As she walked into her house, Dorrie got up from where she had been sitting in the living room watching television with Frank and picked up her jacket and handbag, saying, “I'm on my way.  I'm on my way…“.  Frank got up too, stood awkwardly on one leg for a moment, then followed her out like a tame puppy, leaving Hilary to switch off their television.  All at once, the whole house was very quiet.  A bird was singing in the gathering gloom, in a tone which acknowledged, at once, end of the day and the end of summer.  As Hilary closed the curtains, she spotted headlights in the Bryants’ drive and she thought she saw Caroline's Mini.  For a moment, she almost forgot about Justinian, rushed out the house and along the path to Caroline's, but she remembered in time.  Maybe she should have gone in spite of everything, but… it was 7.30, the time the Bryants usually ate their evening meal, and anyway, Andy had said he would ring this evening.

Andy did ring, to grumble that he had ward rounds at eight o'clock every morning and, the next evening, that he had tutorials at five o'clock in the evening, but then he didn’t ring her again for several days because, as usual, the St Luke's student phone was out-of-order.  Hilary started her librarianship course at Chenham University and the work was piled from the start.  The other students on the course were pleasant enough, almost all girls, graduates who had sought, and failed, to find other jobs, but, at the moment, Hilary found it difficult to engage with new people and to make new friends.  She started attending choir practice on Friday evenings again.  The choir was being led, for the time being, by eighteen year old Helen Abbott, occasional member of the choir, and it pleased Hilary to think that her mother’s organ stool was being taken by a young girl, like Margaret herself when she had first become organist at St Catherine's.  But Helen was about to go to Oxford.

The next week, her place was taken by the new permanent organist, Hugh Fearnley, a music teacher at Merrills School in Chenham, and a far better player than Margaret, an affionado of Messiaen and Langlais.  He brought with him what Constance would call his “fan club”, amongst them two large lady sopranos (apparently from the Chenham Choral Society) who plonked themselves in the stalls where Hilary and Caroline had used to sit and sang in powerful voices, albeit with a strong vibrato which made the junior choir giggle.  Hugh Fearnley managed something which Margaret had never done, that is, prevent Mrs Phillips singing loud and sharp… by offending her so much during his first practice that she left the choir altogether.  He was only interested in his “fan club” and it was as if the old choir members were not there.  At Harvest Festival, he told John, who, for thirty years, had sung tenor (or the soprano line an octave lower – the same thing?), that he thought the anthem would be “too difficult” for him, and, at that point, the whole Newton family left St Catherine's church choir, Hilary also.

Hilary received occasional phone calls from Amy, calling from the payphone in her road in Rushloe.  The girl she had eventually got to share her flat with her, someone called Liz, annoyed Amy a lot, not washing up, leaving her hair dryer and makeup all over the living room, and, every time they spoke on the telephone, Amy would say wistfully, “I really did want to share with you!  I'm really sorry, Hilary… ”

When Liz went away for the weekend, Hilary visited Amy in Rushloe, a nostalgic trip, nostalgic for the life that had now slipped away from her, although she and Amy didn’t do much, as they were both broke.  Hilary was dependent on the tiniest of discretionary grants, what she earned at the pub, and, from time to time, a few notes out Frank’s pocket, when Dorrie wasn’t around.  Frank wasn’t often at home these days, having more or less moved to Dorrie’s house in Chenham.  Hilary was using her mother’s car to drive to Chenham University, which was awkward to get to from Water Langley, and, towards the end of each week, Hilary worried about having enough petrol until George paid her again at the weekend. 

Hilary and Amy had lots of girly conversations about men, about Andy and Phil (Amy’s fiancé), who was now training for the Methodist ministry in Birmingham.  (Amy had met him at a Methodist youth group.)  “I always have to ring him,” Amy said.  “Does Andy ring you?”

“Well, the student phone at St Luke's is usually on the blink.”

“That phone was on the blink two years ago!  Can't they fix it?”

“Someone once complained and they were told that the nation’s future doctors should not need to keep ringing home.”

Amy’s mouth fell wide open in astonishment.  “There are phone boxes in the street, though.”

Hilary sighed.  “When he’s at St Luke's, he’s totally wrapped up in it.  He always has been.  He’s convinced he’s useless, and, of course, he isn't.  He’s doing obstetrics at the moment.”

Amy giggled.  “Looking at women’s bits, Hilary!”

Hilary shrugged.  “They won't be looking their best, though, will they, as they give birth?  He came home last weekend and he was talking about medicine all the time… and his brother, who’s got problems at the moment.” 

“Phil’s really into this ministry thing too.  All for the glory of God.  I can't really say anything, can I?”

“It’ll be different next year, when you’re married, and with him in Birmingham.”  Later, they window-shopped for bridesmaids’ dresses, decided they were too expensive and talked about making them.  On the bus back, Hilary found herself thinking of her father and Dorrie getting married.  “Dorrie’s so awful,” she said suddenly.

“They probably won't do it,” said Amy. 

But when Hilary returned from Rushloe, Frank announced that he and Dorrie had arranged their wedding for two weeks on Friday, at Chenham Registry Office.  “I can't go!” Hilary retorted immediately.  “I’ve got lectures.”

“You must come to our wedding,” said Dorrie.  “Dad would be so upset if you didn’t.  So would I.”  Dorrie patted the place next to her on the settee.  “I want us two to be friends,” she added, forcing a smile.  “Of course, I could never take the place of your mother…  And I want you to meet my two daughters – your new sisters.”

At the word “sisters”, Hilary shuddered inwardly.  Caroline, who had been almost her sister for ten years, was the only sister she wanted, but Caroline was away again, at LSE.  For a moment, Hilary, her heart bursting with hurt, almost allowed herself to be seduced, but she didn’t trust Dorrie, even if she had now turned “nice”.

Hilary did attend the wedding, and the only thing that sustained her throughout the day was the prospect of seeing Andy in Water Langley that evening.  During the reception that Frank mentioned, in passing, that he had put their house in Water Langley on the market, as he and Dorrie would be living in Dorrie’s “bigger”, “more modern” and “more convenient” house in Chenham.  Indeed, when Hilary returned afterwards, the house in Water Langley didn’t feel like a home anymore.  She wandered around the empty rooms: Margaret's clothes still hung in the wardrobe, still waiting for her and, on her dressing table, her jewellery box, some Nulon hand cream, an unopened bottle of Blue Grass toilet water, a jar of cold cream, a black and white photograph of Hilary as a baby.  Hilary opened the jewellery box: she supposed this was all hers now, but she didn’t want to wear her mother’s jewellery, not yet anyway. 

When Andy arrived, he looked thinner and pale. “I'm so hungry!” he exclaimed.  “Shall we eat at the pub?”

“I can't afford it, Andy.  There are eggs in the fridge…”

Andy paled even further.  He had been looking at aborted foetuses under a microscope that week, something he didn’t want to share with Hilary.  “Er, let’s go back to Mum’s.  What was the wedding like?  I really should’ve been there with you, shouldn’t I?  I'm so sorry, Hil!  I'm so sorry!”

She shrugged.  “Why should you be?  You didn’t ask my father to make a bloody fool of himself!”

She locked the house and they set off in the cold, dark air.  “Dad’s selling this place, by the way.”

Andy frowned.  “Your mum and dad, they owned this house jointly, didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

He tightened his arm around her waist.  “Look, you know all my family are lawyers?  Well, you pick things up.”

“Ye-es.”

“You know that when two people own a house jointly and one of them dies, the dead person’s share goes to the living person?”

“So Dad owns the whole house?  I knew that.  Mum didn’t make a Will.  Everything’s gone to Dad.”

“Has he made a Will?”

“No.”

“Well, he’d better, because, as things are now, everything would go to Dorrie, the house, everything, now he’s remarried.”

Hilary frowned.  She didn’t want thousands of pounds, just about £100 to last her to the end of term, for her petrol and some more interesting food.  When they arrived at Andy's house, it was warm, light and welcoming and Constance found them Waitrose deluxe pizzas from the freezer – very different from the square, dry, cheese and tomato efforts that Hilary bought from the Co-op.  As Constance put the pizzas into the oven, and threw the boxes away, she chatted in a brittle tone.  She knew about Frank’s wedding, Hilary supposed, but couldn't bear to mention it.

“I've just had Alice on the phone,” she rattled on. “Her offer on the flat in Lorning has been accepted and she should be in by February.  It’s a bit bigger than she really wanted - two bedrooms – but she’s thinking of taking a tenant.  I thought of you, Hilary.  When you’ve finished your course here, you'll be wanting to be up in London with Andy, won't you?”

Andy's face creased into a frown.  “I don’t know!” he said.