The Meddlers by Claire Rayner

of concern. “She cooked dinner for us—she always keeps her promises, doesn’t she, no matter how she’s feeling?—but now she’s bushed.”
    And George had found her apparently asleep, and had slept uneasily himself, impatient to get the whole matter properly thrashed out, hoping to discuss it in the morning. But she had woken with one of her banging headaches, so that was that.
    Perhaps tonight I’ll get a chance, he thought now, with a lift of optimism. With a successful press conference behind him, he felt a new confidence in his ability to handle Marjorie, even though she was clearly well launched into one of her periods of being thoroughly tiresome. That she was being merely tiresome was undoubted. He had talked to Apthorp about her the previous afternoon, and it was clear she had exaggerated his anxiety about her health. There had been no new developments at all.
    Yes, he’d deal with Majorie tonight, and he’d get her to agree to make her token agreement to the adoption. But he was glad he’d been able to fend off too many probing journalistic questions about her; he didn’t want them publishing any comments about her at this stage, that was sure. Such premature publicity could make her positively obstructive instead of merely difficult.
    Indeed, he told himself as he walked briskly across the courtyard toward the covered way that led past Pathology and Pharmacy to the rear of the hospital and his own unit, it was not quite as bad as it might have been, taking it all around. And now at least he’d be left in peace to get on with some real work.
    The thought of work brought its familiar comfort, and as he pushed open the door of his unit he switched his mind tidily from the press conference to the tests waiting to be done. He had an enjoyable job of work waiting for him, and asked for no more than that. And he had six people to work with who wouldn’t waste time on stupid questions about the baby’s emotional welfare, who saw as clearly as he did the greater fascination in the sheaves of data they had already collected on the child since his birth.
    At seven days, we may be able to get some sense out of the graph on the effects of vacuum decompression during the pregnancy, he told himself happily and walked into his crowded office with a spring in his step.
      Isobel moved softly as she carried the pile of fresh disposable diapers to the cupboard. He was a good baby, didn’t startle and wake at the least noise, like some did, but there was a pleasure in being gentle and slow about things. And the least I can do is make sure he has some peace and quiet while he can, poor little scrap, she thought.
    She stacked the diapers neatly on the top shelf, checked the gowns and vests, and then closed the cupboard and turned to look approvingly around the room. All tidy and comfortable, though she would have preferred to see a little color about the place. All that buff paint—it was so unbabylike; a nursery should have some pink and blue and lemon in it, like sugared almonds. But when she had asked if they couldn’t warm the place up a bit with some pretty colors, Dr. Briant had said sharply that they had to avoid confusing their color appreciation tests later, and she’d have all the color she wanted then.
    She moved over to the cot and looked down at the baby. He really is a dear little thing, she thought, rubbing a little at her right breast. It was sore. She had told Dr. Saxby, and he’d said he’d mention it to Dr. Briant; it could be she was having a bit too high a dose of the red capsules. She certainly had a lot of milk. She thought herself it was because he was such a hungry baby—suckled so vigorously she felt sometimes as though he was pulling out her middle. Not that she had said that to Dr. Saxby. They had warnedher at the start there would be complicated things going on, and not to try to understand them, that her job was looking after the baby. So, obediently she kept her own counsel. She