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pregnant and we had to rush her to the labour ward – in the nick of time, as it transpired.’
    â€˜There you are, you see,’ Aunt Agnes put in triumphantly. ‘Didn’t I tell you things might be ten times worse?’
    As Ralph bit into the chocolate, Lorna could taste its creamy richness slowly dissolving on her tongue. She crunched an imaginary nut between her teeth, savouring the contrast in the textures. She would probably fast all day only to find the operation was cancelled in the end. Still, at least she wasn’t panicking – a miracle given the circumstances. But then panic was of its essence unpredictable. It could erupt for no reason at all, yet fail to materialize in a bona-fide crisis.
    With a sigh of resignation she sank back in her seat, listening to the crackle of the radio. The whole area, it seemed, was experiencing a spate of burglaries, muggings and horrific accidents.
    â€˜ … suspects breaking in now at 15 Burlington Road. Both men armed …’
    â€˜ … pile-up in the Kingston one-way system. Believed serious injuries.’
    â€˜ … burglary at 7 Fairfield North. Two masked men seen running away …’
    Not very tactful of Ralph to sit there scoffing chocolate while bodies were strewn pell-mell across the county: bleeding, coshed, unconscious, robbed, raped or dead.
    â€˜What operation are you having?’ Pete asked. ‘I hope it’s nothing serious.’
    She hesitated. Something serious would actually sound more impressive. A triple bypass, for example, would induce instant respect. Bunions, like mothers-in-law, were merely fodder for jokes. ‘It’s, er, on my foot.’
    â€˜Well, I wish you all the best. Certainly the Princess Royal is said to be first class. And very snazzy, so I’m told.’
    Spoilt bitch, they probably thought, swanning around in luxury while the have-nots languished for decades on the waiting-list. Perhaps the car breaking down was her punishment for queue-jumping. Private schools, private doctors, and she had the gall to call herself a socialist!
    â€˜It’s not a bunion, is it?’ Andy continued remorselessly. ‘A friend of the wife’s had hers done and said it was worse than having twins.’
    Luckily an item on the radio diverted their attention – more bloodshed or skulduggery, she assumed, although she couldn’t decipher a word of it. She stared glumly at the back of Pete’s bald head. The car was getting fuggy and, far from being a haven, felt cramped and claustrophobic. Its blue lights seemed as restless as her thoughts, circling on the same obsessive track. She could see snowflakes trapped in their beams, frenziedly trying to escape.
    Pete switched on the heater to clear the misted windows, while Andy pursued the subject of his wife’s friend’s bunion op.
    â€˜Yes, Janet wishes she’d never had it done. After all that pain and aggro her feet are just as bad. In fact she has to walk with a stick.’
    Lorna swallowed. ‘Yes, well …’
    â€˜Aha!’ said Pete. ‘Rescue is at hand!’
    Yellow flashing lights were now added to the blue as the AA van drew up in a flurry of slush. Ralph and Andy got out and stood talking to the patrolman, who then strode across to the stranded car and inspected the engine.
    Please be able to fix it, Lorna pleaded silently. As soon as humanly possible.
    Ralph returned glowering to the police car. ‘It’s an absolute bugger. There’s nothing he can do here, he says. He’ll have to tow us to a garage.’
    â€˜Oh God!’ she wailed. ‘I should have booked that cab when they offered it. I’d better see if it’s still free.’
    It wasn’t of course. There was now a delay till two o’clock.
    â€˜Ralph, what on earth shall I do ?’
    â€˜Ring the hospital. Tell them with any luck we’ll be there in an hour.’
    â€˜But that’s