The following morning, Hilary awoke again to the sound of the tea trolley clunking around the ward.  Still very thirsty, after being “nil by mouth” prior to the operation to set her arm yesterday afternoon, she swigged down one lurid red plastic NHS cup in a huge gulp then asked for a second.  Later on, she was allowed to take a shower, with a plastic cover over the plaster caste that was now on her wrist– what a relief to be clean and in her own clothes, which had been brought by Alice, yesterday afternoon, even though she had needed help to undress and dress.  When Hilary returned to her bedside, she found an Interflora bouquet on her NHS-issue unit, irises and daffodils, very tasteful, in understated colours – “To Hilary.  In deepest sympathy.  Hilary Wainwright,” read the card.

“In deepest sympathy?  I haven't died!” Hilary exclaimed to Caroline, who arrived in the afternoon, big with the news that a General Election had been called for 3 May.

“No, although you did manage to tumble down the escalator at Tottenham Court Road.” said Caroline, sitting on Hilary's bed.

“Did I?” exclaimed Hilary. 

“That’s what the police told me!  They reckon you were semi-conscious at the time and you lost your footing.”

“They didn’t tell me that.  They kept asking me what happened and I can't remember anything, Caroline.”

“Can't you?  Still?”

“No!  I can’t remember anything of Thursday night, or of arriving in the hospital and being in casualty… nothing really.”   She was too embarrassed to mention those vague visions of Andy, Andy in a white coat with short hair.  She had seen short-haired Andy again last night.  When she had returned to the ward from theatre, he had been pushing her trolley, telling her that the hospital porters were on strike…  She must stop this dreaming - fantasising - about Andy.  She must try to control her thought-processes.  “But the police were saying yesterday that I'd been assaulted, nothing about falling down the escalators.”

“They reckon you were attacked, got up and made it to Tottenham Court Road, then fell down the escalator, semi-conscious.”

“Oh.  And did this Hilary Wainwright…  Art Hilary… attack me?  I mean, it looks very likely, doesn’t it?”

Caroline shook her head.  “No.  He couldn't have done.  The police have now interrogated him.  It seems that you never met him on Thursday evening.  He never reached your meeting place at Tottenham Court Road.  He left work at the Small Country Houses Association office at about 5.30, got into the lift at Regent’s Park Tube, then the lift got stuck!””

Hilary had to giggle.  “Oh no!”

Caroline giggled too.  “They were stuck for four hours, him and ten other people.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

 “He’s rung Alice a couple of times, to ask how you are.”

“So it couldn't have been him, then.  The police wanted to know if anyone had a grudge against me, or if I had any ex-boyfriends…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!  Andy’s hardly going to beat you up after breaking up with you two years ago!  You didn’t mention Andy's name, did you?”

“No, of course not!  I mean, it’s not going to be someone I know, is it, just some random person.”

“I expect so,” said Caroline, shrugging.  “Mum sends her love, by the way.  Everybody in Water Langley does.  They’re going to say prayers for you in church on Sunday.  And Father Bernard says he’ll come and see you.”

Hilary giggled again.  “Father Bernard… Visiting the Sick!”

Caroline laughed with her then frowned. “Hil, we can't seem to track down your dad.  You haven't heard from him, have you?”

“No.”

“Constance has been trying to ring your dad’s number in Chenham since Friday morning, but nobody’s picking up the phone.”

“Is she ringing the right number?  Chenham 589125?”

Caroline wrote this number down.  “I’ll check with her, but Alice told me that Constance even went to your dad’s house last night and tried ringing the doorbell.  Nobody answered.”

Hilary shrugged.  He wasn’t her dad, was he?

“Hello, Hilary!” cried Bryony, appearing around the screen with yet more flowers.  Bryony also wanted to talk about the Election, saying there was concern amongst Civil Servants that the Conservatives - if elected - would be “inexperienced” and Caroline got annoyed.  “That’s an argument for a One Party State!” she said.

“The Conservatives wouldn’t be able to deal with the unions…” said Bryony..

“Well, we certainly wouldn’t offer them beer and sandwiches at Number Ten,” Caroline retorted.

“Er… hello,” another voice called across their political discussion.

Hilary looked up.  Caroline and Bryony looked up.  Caroline spoke first.  “Hello, Andy.”

“Hello,” he replied. 

Silence.

“I can't get used to seeing you with your short hair,” said Caroline.

“I had to have it cut when I started working here,” he said, feeling the hair on his collar.

Silence.

“How long have you been working here?” Bryony asked.

“Since August… This is my pre-registration year.”

Silence.

 “We have to do six months surgical and six months medical.  I've done surgical.  I'm now on medical.”

Hilary didn’t speak.  She couldn't speak.  A shockwave was zapping through her whole body.  This head-wound had left her confused.  Here was Andy, in his white doctor’s coat, with short hair, just as he had appeared in her dreams… fantasies or whatever. 

More silence.

He looked at Hilary, stared for a moment and then drew in his breath.  “How are you, Hil?”

 “OK,” she mumbled.

“I actually came to tell you that Mum’s found out where your dad is,” he said.

“Oh?”

“He’s in Majorca, on holiday, with Dorrie.”

Hilary didn’t reply.  She wasn’t taking in what he was saying at all, only that Andy was here, just a few feet away, after all this time.

“Did you know he was going to Majorca?” Caroline asked Hilary.

“No, but I don’t see him much, do I?”  He wasn’t her father.

“Mum went into the hairdresser’s in Water Langley and spoke to your Auntie Edna” he went on.  “Edna said that she only knew where Frank was because he’d rung last night, from Majorca.”

“Thank you.  I mean, please thank your mum very much,” Hilary rousing herself.  Constance would expect to be thanked.

“Yes, OK,” he said distractedly. ”Er… I've got to see a patient on medical now. 

“That really was Andy, wasn’t it?” Hilary demanded, as he walked away.

“He used to have long hair, didn’t he?” Bryony asked.

“I can't get used to seeing him with his hair short,” said Caroline, “even though I saw him with short hair in church at Christmas.”

Andy, long-haired or short-haired, didn’t belong to her anymore.  He belonged to Sloane-y Arabella.  She needed to expunge him from her mind, to get rid of all these imaginings.  After Caroline and Bryony left, she got back into bed and tried to sleep, but, after a few minutes, her eyes sprung open and fixed themselves on her flowers.  What was she going to do about Art Hilary?  Even now, from her hospital bed, she was relieved not to have had to go through with her date on Thursday evening. 

A few hours later, short-haired Andy appeared at her bedside again.  “He was ever so nervous!” Hilary would comment to Caroline the following afternoon.

“So he bloody well should be!” Caroline would retort.

“He says he wants to train in psychiatry.  He wants to go to the Maudsley Hospital.  He just wanted to talk, about Water Langley mainly.  He told me that Great Hall (Mrs Dove’s place) is going to become a home for young offenders and there’s a planning application for a Chinese takeaway in Langley Parade.  And the church has just got a Faculty to build a loo at last, off the vestry.”

“People do talk to their ex-es.  You remember Piers?  I went out with him in my first term at LSE.  I bump into Piers at parties sometimes and we always chat.  He’s doing a PhD in International relations now.”

But that would be next day.  It was awkward chatting to Andy, but they always had had plenty to say to one another.  She remembered the letters they had used to write before they had started going out together.  After he left, Hilary thought of “Persuasion” and “Captain Wentworth”.  Her bed was right next to the nurses’ station and she overheard the nurses’ comments.  “Andy Newton… never seen any new doctor so nervous as he was when he arrived here in August!” remarked Nurse Whittaker, who had helped Hilary back into bed after her operation last night.  “But he soon got his confidence.”

“Hilary and he grew up in the same village,” said Nurse Sharon.

That was how it would be, reflected Hilary, Water Langley, the village school, the choir - with her Captain Wentworth.

Nurse Whittaker heaved a sigh and got up from her desk.  “Who’s on call for Mr Tinsley’s team tonight then?”  She consulted a blackboard on the wall.  “Mark Townsend.”

“It says here Arabella Denny,” asked Nurse Sharon, picking up a piece of paper on the desk.

“Mark must be covering for Arabella.  Arabella’s sick.”

“Arabella was quite all right yesterday.  She was on the ward round at lunchtime,” retorted Nurse Sharon.

“One of the auxiliaries saw her crying in the ladies yesterday afternoon.  Then we heard she’d gone sick.”

Arabella was now.  Hilary was history.