Questions of Trust A Medical Romance - By Sam Archer Page 0,6

plight of the homeless population in the area – very insightful, and dare I say it, quite moving. You’re clearly a writer of considerable talent.

I’m afraid you might find Pemberham a little parochial for your liking, but I’m intrigued by the proposal that you made for a one-off article, about a journalist from the city who relocates to a country town. It’s the kind of human interest story that would go down well with our readers, and I’ve no doubt your style would be popular. How about a 2,000-word piece on this theme? If you’re still interested, email me back for our terms and conditions of service.

Look forward to hearing from you.

Best wishes,

Mike Sellers, Editor-In-Chief, Pemberham Gazette

Chloe felt a small fist of triumph raise itself in her chest. It was a start. A 2,000-word article didn’t give her much breathing space to be creative, but that was the essence of good journalism: brevity with style. She’d been in town for a day and a half, and already she had paying work. That was what mattered.

An early riser, by habit but also by necessity since Jake had learned to walk, Chloe had got up at six, just like on any normal working day, and after breakfasting with Jake she’d sat at the tiny dining room table with a mug of coffee and opened her laptop. Yesterday had been spent unpacking and neatening the cottage up, and although it needed a touch of finesse and a lick of paint here and there, those were details that could wait.

She began to outline her article while Jake played happily on his own on the rug where she could see him. Already she’d decided on a mildly self-deprecating tone, portraying herself as a big city girl haplessly out of her depth. It certainly wouldn’t do to come across as brash or cocksure; that would put readers off from the word go. The trouble was, she hadn’t been in town long enough for any amusing episodes to have occurred that might illustrate the culture clash between city and country at which she was aiming. And she didn’t want to make anything up.

Chloe took a sip of coffee and stared at the floral print wallpaper, thinking vaguely that that would most likely have to go at some point in the future. A thought drifted unbidden into her awareness.

Why not use the encounter at the doctor’s surgery?

As always when an idea occurred to her, she began typing notes before her analytical thought processes had a chance to get to work and possibly ruin the concept. GP surgery – expecting conveyor-belt treatment – instead, personal greeting by name from one of the doctors and invitation to drop into his office.

She looked at what she’d written. No, it wouldn’t do. The readers might get the impression she was suggesting doctors in Pemberham were at best underworked, at worst lazy. Plus, it was a small town, with only two GP practices. Many readers would work out, or guess, who the doctor was that she was referring to. That would be too personal an element for an article like this, and Dr Carlyle himself might hear about it and take offence.

So, over the next couple of hours, with occasional interruptions to attend to Jake when he needed to use the potty or simply wanted a hug, Chloe concocted a wry tale of a rather naïve professional woman rediscovering the simple pleasures of everyday life, of interactions with a community that existed quite successfully and happily outside the hurly burly of city life. She took pains all the while to avoid sounding patronising or sardonic, except when referring to her own mild ineptitude.

She wrote, and rewrote, and polished the article until it gleamed. Then, conscious as all experienced writers learn to become that too much revision could rub the life out of a piece of writing, she pronounced it finished.

Rereading it, this time with a potential reader’s eye rather than an editor’s, she felt a glow of pride. The style, the lively, quirky prose, were undoubtedly her. And the details of the story, while carefully selected and often embellished, were true to life.

But the narrator of the piece, the woman relating the tale, most emphatically wasn’t her.

The woman gave no indication that she was weighed down by a grief like a set of medieval chains. Or that the future, in truth, terrified her, because she was going to have to provide for her infant son, and was going to have to do it