Disturbing Ground by Priscilla Masters Page A

a relative nor a close friend. She half-listened to the prayers of commitment and filed out, with the others, to the churchyard. At the graveside she glanced around her at the ring of faces and saw sadness and deep, deep thought as though each person was remembering the strange life which had been wasted.
    Wasted - gangland slang for murder.
    But looking across the open grave she would find it hard to credit that anyone here believed Bianca’s untimely death had been anything but a sad and unnecessary accident. There was a spirit of acceptance. Except for maybe one man. He was standing right at the back of the huddle of mourners. He was small and wiry and hopping from foot to foot as though he was angry. Angry? The emotion seemed misplaced. Why should anyone be angryat Bianca’s death - except maybe Carole. And like the others she looked calm. Sad but tranquil. Megan took another surreptitious peep at the man and wondered what was making him angry. Bianca’s death had been a chance event. So was he angry that the pond had remained unfenced? Or that she had been unsupervised -did he blame her death on a lack of care in the community? Megan sneaked another look, wondering whether she had misread his fidgettiness. But if anything she had underestimated his emotion. He was a furious little man. Like Rumpelstiltskin - the angry, restless little dwarf of the child’s fairy story, his eyes glaring, cross with anyone they landed on. She turned back still wondering why he was so angry.
    “Meggie.”
    She knew it was Alun touching her shoulder without even turning round. She would have sensed his presence without him speaking a single word. She could smell his aftershave, recognise the firm grip. He had often gripped when he had meant to touch. She didn’t turn around but tilted her head slightly backwards.
    He leaned forward so his face was almost touching hers. “Meggie,” he said again.
    She turned her head around slightly to look at him. “Do you make a habit of attending funerals?”
    “Do you?”
    “More often than you’d think.”
    “Does that mean you’re an unsuccessful doctor?”
    She smiled at the clumsy banter. “Successful or unsuccessful has nothing to do with it, Alun. Nature beats me hands down every time.”
    She sensed he was smiling too. In the hot air around she knew he was feeling warm towards her.
    “Not nature this time, Meggie.”
    “No,” she agreed.
    People were filing passed, some nodding at her.
    Alun glanced around him. “Dismal affairs, aren’t they, funerals?”
    “I haven’t been to many happy ones.”
    “Oh - I don’t know. Old people who’ve had a long and fulfilling life.”
    “I know plenty of old people, Alun,” she countered. “But not so many who’ve had a long and fulfilling life.”
    “I intend to.”
    She turned around fully then and met his eyes, read there the fierce determination that had seen him through plenty of tough rugby matches, muddy, cold and with fearful opposition. “I know.” It was all still there - that hunger that she had once adored but now had almost forgotten about. He must have read some response mirrored in her face. He caught his breath.
    But she knew people were watching and so did Alun. He responded with a fierce blush and a hand on her arm.
    “Come for a drink with me again?”
    She nodded.
     
    On the following day Megan felt jaunty. The sky was blue, the weather warm but not too hot. The surgery had - for once - been emptied quickly of patients with minor problems and she had no visits - apart from this one she had promised.
     
    Esther still lived in the small, semi-detached council bungalow she had shared with Bianca. Megan flicked open the red painted wicket gate and approached the front door via a straight concrete path. The garden was neat, sporting wallflowers and scarlet bedding geraniums - tended by the council gardener - and the house itself wasrecently painted. She gave a brisk knock and stepped back. It always took Esther a