"Show me slowly what I only know the limits of . . ."

Chapter 11 - Adaptation

Ruth had endured several sleepless nights after Martin admitted his haemophobia had recurred. She expected the same in London, especially given the unfamiliar bed in Daphne and Howard Breed's guest room. The morning following her retirement party, Ruth awoke from an untroubled sleep, perhaps induced by the Champagne generously poured by Helen Malloy. The party had been better than Ruth expected.

In tribute to their mentor, three registrars performed a charming parody of Gilbert and Sullivan's "Three Little Maids From School." Ruth thought it clever that the original line "freed from its genius tutelary" became "freed to pursue things literary." They flattered Ruth to think her book literature!

The former chief executive, himself newly retired, made a rather embarrassing speech extolling Ruth's contributions to psychiatry, her generation of practitioners and those who would follow. As for her forthcoming book, it would extend her brilliant reputation even more. How much drink had the man imbibed, she wondered.

A particularly moving talk was provided by a burly officer from visitor reception. He had been severely injured during service in Afghanistan and – Ruth soon recognized – suffered mental trauma as well. Standing on his proesthetic limb, he recalled how Dr. Ellingham treated the most violent prisoners by engaging them over a chessboard. He asked if she would teach him the game as well. In a self-deprecating manner, he noted that he could not easily pick up the pieces, but Dr. Ellingham allowed him to push them from square to square with the remains of his fingers. His proudest moment was his first checkmate of her king. It was not easy. He had to study and practice the game so that he could win fair and square. Nor was it easy when he sought the psychiatric care she bluntly told him was needed. He owed his life to a military medic, but he owed his mind to Ruth Ellingham. Applause sounded as he limped toward Ruth, who feared he might embrace her. Fortunately, he only grasped her hand. She did not cry then, but did this morning, cursing the eye drops that allowed tears to flow. She had to face Daphne and Howard.

Her retired friends had been very animated last night in welcoming her to their flat and then pushing her into a taxi. Ruth imagined it was the highlight of their week, perhaps even month. How tedious their lives must be. She would steal quietly into the kitchen and make tea for them. They were likely exhausted after what must have been a rare, nighttime outing.

"Oh, look, here she is Daph." I told you we should let her sleep."

"Welcome to retirement, Ruthie," Daphne thrust a beaker of tea into her guest's hand. "You'll love it. Sorry, we can't be with you today - busy, busy. We've fitness class, followed by our tutoring at St. Jeremy's. Howard teaches literacy and I'm doing the accountancy. Lunch is booked in with our old neighbours from Michigan who are on a river cruise through Europe. I can't imagine 14 days on a ship, but they're Americans, aren't they. I tried for a ticket so that you could join us at the symphony rehearsal, but no luck. Too many pensioners fill the seats quickly. We should be home by 6'ish, and we'll fetch take away. Do you fancy curry from Thailand, India, China or Nepal? Or I can always stop at the fish monger, but you've probably had your fill of fish."

Ruth sank into the kitchen chair, amazed by the day her friend presented. She couldn't dream that Daphne and Howard would be this active in retirement. She thought they would bumble about the flat, making desultory conversation about mundane news bits from the telly. They seemed more involved in life than ever. Perhaps retirement in London – or at least her village of Crowthorne – would be more fulfilling than Ruth thought possible.

"Don't worry about me, dears. I'm to have lunch with Agnes Makepeace, my solicitor's former secretary. She's retired as well, but I want to chat with her about Joan's farm. She always knows the right person to contact. Or at least she once did."

"So you've decided to sell the place?" Howard looked a little concerned. "You might keep it for a few more years. Property values are rising rapidly in Cornwall with the tourism. Even our esteemed Prime Minister takes holidays in Polzeath. We only wish he'd remain there permanently."

"Now, Howard, don't bore Ruth with your political views. You've plenty of time for that this evening. We must be off or we'll miss the weight training. You know it's good for your shoulder, darling. Help yourself to breakfast, Ruth. We'll have a nice catch up this evening. The fete was splendid. They truly appreciated you at Broadmoor. Now it's time for something new!"

Agnes Makepeace was a ginger or at least this was the first Ruth thought to notice her hair. It was no longer twisted into a tight knot but arranged in a short style which flattered her long face. Still Ruth recognized her as she entered the restaurant. "Dr. Ellingham, it's so lovely to see you. Country living agrees with you, doesn't it now?"

"I'm not certain about that, but please do call me Ruth. I'm retired as well."

"Yes, you've said. And now to sell Mrs. Norton's farm. Is that what you want? Seems a shame, being in the family so long. Does the lad, Martin, not want it?"

"It seems not, but I certainly wish he did. He has a child now. It would be nice if Havenhurst passed to him."

"A child! Mr. Ellingham! I thought he'd never marry after the doctor wed that other bloke. Didn't you think they were good together? Traveling to the Naseby Run and all that. Of course, that was another time. . . Look at me, two years out of harness and having the time of my life. Even getting married." Agnes wiggled her left hand to display a gold Cladagh ring with a green stone at its center."

"Agnes, how lovely. Anyone we know?" Ruth often wondered if Agnes and the family solicitor, Arthur Spilsbury, had a bit of a thing, particularly after his wife died. She'd let Agnes give the news.

"No, it's not Mr. Spilsbury! That's what everyone thought. He's an old fuddy-duddy, isn't he? We talk occasionally, but I leave him to his poor daughter-in-law. She told me I had ruined him for any other woman. Suppose I did. But that's what he wanted in a secretary.

"My fiance's an Irishman I met on a train. He'd been a priest of all things and finally decided to leave when his mother died. He took holy orders only to please her, you see. Now he's a hospital chaplain and visits care homes."

"So you've been traveling a bit in retirement. As far as Ireland even."

"Oh, no, I met Jack in New Zealand. We were on a Kiwirail from Christchurch to Picton and he plopped next to me. Talked my ear off – that's the Irish and their chat. I did see Veronica Estilow in Wellington. She's still a muckety muck and had me to her house for supper. Jack as well. Veronica travels back and forth to Washington seeing her grandchildren. David's in London now and the kiddies are in the States with their mum. Veronica doesn't understand why he can't get on with Meghan – that's his wife. You should visit her, Dr. Ellingham, I mean Ruth. I know Veronica would be thrilled to see you."

"Traveling would be lovely, but I have to manage the sale of Joan's farm. It requires constant attention, and I'm just not up to it. Are there estate agents who do that sort of thing? I must say I'm at a loss, Agnes."

"Of course, there are. But have you thought to do something with it other than farming. Cornwall is very popular with Londoners, and there's money to be made. Maybe you could do an Airbnb."

"You mean a B&B? Too much work. And the house is a bit derelict. Joan had neglected it for years – didn't have the money. I'd have to smarten it up."

"Well, I'm living with Jack now and doing Airbnb with my flat. Tourists pay a fortune to be near St. James Park. Mr. Spilsbury did well putting me on to the flat. I bought it years ago for a song. Now I can let it for 100 pounds a night or more – enough to have a Polish woman come in to do the linens and clean. I leave a key with the porter and it's sorted with . I'll send you an email with the details. You could let rooms at the farm or the entire house. It would pay for the taxes, upkeep and give you a nice sum. It's better than my pension."

Ruth felt as if she were Robinson Crusoe and only returned to civilization. First Daphne and Howard were gadding about and now Agnes Makepeace was on to a money making scheme that Ruth found intriguing. Why didn't she know about Airbnb or ? She no longer had even an email account now retired from Broadmoor. Only a few months in Portwenn and she had become a provincial!

"I'm in the process of setting up a new email, Agnes," surely Al Large could manage that. "I do want to know about this Airbnb business and will be in touch. It might be worth refurbishing the farm house, if it could pay for itself. Still, if you know of estate agents or a solicitor, I would be very grateful."

"Of course. Now, I've not had breakfast and the mozzarella frittata looks delicious. This is my treat, Ruth. You were always very generous at Christmas."

Ruth and Agnes had a very convivial lunch, and Ruth extracted more ideas about how she might retain the farm. Al Large was eager to stay on as manager, but he'd have to raise his game if there were a renovation scheme. Her mind was swirling by the time Agnes put down her cup, consulted her watch and announced: "Must run. I'm meeting Jack for a symphony rehearsal. Let's have a snap to remember our lunch. We can send it on to Veronica if you like."

Agnes reached into a dark blue tote and withdrew a slim mobile.

"Let me fetch a waiter. He can take the photo," Ruth offered.

"Oh no, we'll make a selfie." Agnes leaned toward her, extended the mobile, and pressed the screen. "Now this is nice, isn't it?" Looking at the mobile, Ruth saw a passably good photo of herself with a smiling Agnes Makepeace. "I'll send this on to Veronica if you don't mind. Is there anyone you'd like to have it?"

"Yes, please do - and give Veronica my sincere regards." Then Ruth stopped. She had no one else who would want a snap of her. It would be silly to send it to anyone from Broadmoor or her small circle here in London. She saw them often enough. Who really cared about her in this world? "Send it to Louisa. That's Martin's – actually, she's a friend. She likes that sort of thing. Let me find her number. Please add that I'm enjoying old friends in London."

In both the station and tube to the Breeds' flat, Ruth heard repeated announcements that unattended packages or luggage would be seized and destroyed. Exiting the train, she looked directly at a CCTV camera and counted others as she walked past a group of shops. Eleven in all. More police seemed to be on the streets, and several hurried past on bicycles. In Crowthorne, security was not as omnipresent but, here in central London, it was more than evident. Why hadn't she noticed this before? Had living in Portwenn allowed her to drop her guard? The hapless PC in charge of village security was useless with Sally Tishell, and Ruth shuddered to imagine what would come of her in an emergency. She reflexively touched her handbag containing the red gel defencive spray she was permitted to carry at Broadmoor. One never knew when a docile prisoner may turn murderous.

She'd always enjoyed the grit, noise and haphazard glory of London, but suddenly Cornwall seemed terribly appealing, save for her isolation at the farm. Ruth knew few villagers, other than Martin, Louisa, and the shopkeepers. Joan's friends had been quite kind, but Muriel Steel was at High Trees with her gentleman friend in attendance. Wesse managed her bakery and had a horde of grandchildren in and out during the day. Only Annie had time for Ruth, and that was sporadic because of demand for her fancy catering. One afternoon Ruth had helped arrange trays of savouries for Annie and felt the effects on her hands for several days. Thankfully her book was completed, and she need not use the computer. Tomorrow, she would discuss the final version with her publisher who had scheduled a Christmas release.

Ruth couldn't imagine a book on the criminally insane being a proper present, but the enthusiastic young girl, Nicola, assured Ruth it would be "fantastic" whilst her American counterpart, Ashley, elevated it to "awesome." Ruth bit her tongue when she was forced to talk with the two supposedly well- educated editors whose vocabularies were as thin as their well-toned bodies. The two had urged her to buy a smartphone so that she might text them, their preferred method of communication. She tried to inform them that mobile coverage in Portwenn was the issue, not the device. Their open looks of pity galled Ruth, but she had done nothing about it. Approaching a mobile shop, she thought to browse, ask a question or two.

A young woman in an incongruous combination of tight fitting jeans and colourful hijab smiled benignly at Ruth as she entered. It was the same comforting look she once gave new prisoners at Broadmoor: we aren't going to hurt you; we can actually help.

An hour later and with a substantial outlay of funds, Ruth had a smartphone, service plan, and a new email account. Hassan, one of the youngsters who had participated in the transaction, downloaded several "apps" he thought important to Ruth. They included Emergency Services and the London weather report. To be adventurous, she asked him to add Cornwall weather as well.

Now it came down to something called a "ringtone." Leyla, who first greeted her, assured Ruth anything was possible. She thought to do "Ride of the Valkyries" from Russell's favourite opera but, in the end, selected the sound of a classic British telephone. "Our most popular ringtone. My grandmother has it as well," Hassan bowed politely as he finished this last piece.

Ruth tucked the phone into her handbag and picked up the plastic container holding any number of manuals which she would turn over to Al Large. Certainly, he could help if she forget anything.

That evening Howard was completely fascinated by the smartphone. He showed Ruth how to send a text to Agnes Makepeace and suggested she download several game apps he enjoyed. Daphne finally intervened. "Give it back, darling. We are going to have a proper conversation with our guest."

"Oh look, Ruth's friend Agnes has responded to her text and forwarded a message from someone called Louisa." Handing the phone to her, Ruth read: "Thanks 4 pic. Must reach Ruth. No answer friend's flat. Please have her ring. Martin & I need her."

Continued . . . .