Reception directed her to Ward Seventeen, the general surgical ward where her father was. She’d go there first – he might be still awake. But he wasn’t.
‘The doctor decided to sedate him,’ the night sister said. ‘He was terribly anxious, worrying about your mother.’
‘Do you know how my mother is?’
The sister’s face clouded. ‘She’s on Ward Twenty-three, being specialled. You can go up in a minute but, look, you’re shaking. You shouldn’t have driven down at once.’
‘Wouldn’t you have?’
The sister didn’t answer her question. ‘Come and sit by your father and I’ll get you some tea. And I’ll send for a sandwich for you – you look as if you need it. You can go up and see your mother when you feel a bit better.’
Her father’s head was bandaged and his left arm broken and strapped up outside the bed. An IV set dripped fluid into his right arm. The sister placed a chair close by the bed, and Megan sat and watched. His breathing was steady, but his face looked older than she remembered it. Perhaps it was the contrast with the whiteness of the bandages. But he was alive. And the sister said the doctor thought there was nothing too seriously wrong.
She drank the tea and ate the sandwich, and to her surprise felt better. Blood sugar was low at this time of night, and she’d been almost asleep before she’d set off on her long drive.
After a while she walked quietly back to the sister’s office. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’ she asked.
The sister shrugged. ‘The police are still trying to make sense of it. They were on that dual carriageway – you know, the one that runs from Kenton to Sparkdale? Your parents had just been to the cinema in Kenton and were on their way home. A lorry coming the other way just crashed through the central reservation and hit them head on. Your dad tried to avoid it, but couldn’t. Apparently, there was nothing he could have done – he was certainly not at fault.’
‘Dad was always a careful driver,’ Megan said. ‘What were their injuries?’
‘Happily, they were both wearing seatbelts, otherwise … things would have been worse. As you see, your father has a bad cut to the scalp, but a scan and X-ray shows there’s no damage to the brain. Fractures to radius and ulna – they’ve been set. Lots of bruising and abrasions, which will be very uncomfortable. Shocked, of course. But nothing else serious. He was more concerned about your mother than himself, and he was worried about the shop. You know how little things upset people in shock?’
‘Yes, I know,’ Megan said. She was thinking that in future she’d be more conscious of how important they seemed.
‘Well, he was saying that Arthur would have to do it all, and there’s too much work.’
‘Arthur works in the shop with my father. He can open on his own. I’ll ring him first thing in the morning.’ It seemed odd to be dealing with these little things, but she knew her father would worry about them the moment he opened his eyes. She took a deep breath. ‘And what about my mother?’
The sister looked down. ‘Not very good, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘A bit of the lorry smashed into her skull – it’s her only injury. She’s had an X-ray and a CT scan. There’s no end of damage – fragments of bone in the brain. At the moment they’re stabilising her in ITC, and a neurosurgeon will look at her tomorrow. We can go up and see her now. You look a bit better.’
It was a different ward, an intensive care unit. Megan looked at all the complex apparatus, dwarfing and making insignificant the white-draped figure in the middle. Megan knew about the function of each – in the past she’d ordered them for her own patients. But it was different when it was your own mother. Just as it was different with Charles.
She kissed her mother’s cheek, which was as white as paper. There was the faintest movement of her chest, the only sign that she was alive.
After ten minutes the sister returned. ‘I’ve arranged for you to sleep in one of our side wards till morning.’
‘No,’ she said instantly. ‘I’ll stay by their bedsides, one or the other.’
Patiently the sister said, ‘You can’t do anything, and I promise that if there’s any change at all I’ll wake you. In the morning you’re going to need all your strength. You’ll have to reassure your dad for a start. So sleep now would be the very best thing for you.’
Megan knew the sister was right. She was shown the little side ward, where she cleaned her teeth and slipped into bed. She thought she’d stay awake indefinitely, but in seconds her battered brain switched off and she was asleep.
‘There’s no change in your mother and father,’ the young student nurse said next morning, putting a cup of tea by the bed, ‘and there’s a Mr Catford to see you in the consultants’ common room. He’d like to see you as soon as possible. There’s a towel here and you can have a shower next door. Then I’ll take you up there.’
It was obvious that the student nurse thought that a summons from this Mr Catford was very important. Last night Megan had pulled on the T-shirt she used as a nightie, leaving her clothes in a pile on the floor. Now she drank the tea, slipped next door for a shower, and then felt a bit better.
As she dressed the reality of what had happened hit her. She thought of her parents – how she’d acted, how seldom she’d been to see them. Of course, she was busy – but she vowed that in future she would come to see them at least once a month. She was an only child, all they had. Now, who was this Mr Catford?
The nurse took her to the consultants’ common room and knocked on the door. ‘Must get back to the ward,’ she muttered, and left. The door was thrown open and a voice boomed, ‘You must be Dr Taylor. Come in, come in!’
Mr Catford was a square, smiling man, wearing a fashionable blue suit and a very fancy bow tie. He was about forty. The bow tie did it. He was famous – or infamous – for the bow ties, but she should have recognised the name. He appeared on TV, in magazines, in the press, not least in the medical press, wearing the bow ties. Andy Catford, perhaps the most distinguished neurosurgeon in Britain. What was he doing here? It was a good hospital certainly, but provincial – in some ways a bit of a backwater.
Mr Catford beamed. ‘Dr Taylor, I’m Andy Catford. I believe they serve an excellent breakfast here, then we’ve got talking to do. I think it’s this way.’ He set off at full speed down the corridor and she had to almost run to keep up with him.
‘Mr Catford, my parents are –’
‘Are being looked after and will be for the next twenty minutes. If there’s any change in their condition I shall be beeped. I came up from London this morning – you tend to forget how fast you can travel while the rest of the country is asleep. Isn’t the countryside here beautiful? Even in the dark you can tell. I believe you grew up round here – you must tell me about it. I wonder if I could get a few weeks’ work here. Ah, the canteen.’
He took two trays and told the smiling serving lady, ‘Two full English breakfasts, please, my dear. And then we’ll be fine for the rest of the day.’
He turned to Megan and said, ‘The English breakfast is our one indisputable contribution to international cuisine. I never do without one. It makes my entire day go well. Now, pot of tea or cafetière of coffee?’
She took her tray and followed him, bemused, as he went to a table and waited till she’d seated herself, before sitting opposite her. Outside the darkness was disappearing, the greyness of dawn about to appear. ‘Mr Catford,’ she said, ‘what am I doing here with you?’
He pointed at her breakfast. ‘No talk till we’ve eaten. But I will tell you two things. One, I’m going to operate on your mother, if you want me to and if we can organise it with the hospital. Two, I’m doing it as a favour to a very old friend, Christopher Firth.’
‘Christopher! What does he –?’
‘Eat!’ he commanded.
She ate. It seemed simpler to let things just progress. And her mother … the best chance of her recovery lay with this man. He was more than a populariser – he was a brilliantly skill
ed surgeon with an international reputation. If anyone could help her mother, he could. But how had Christopher –?
‘Morning, Megan.’
She looked up. ‘Aagh!’ she squeaked, and dropped her fork. She couldn’t take much more of this. Christopher was looking down at her!
Where had he come from? He bent over, kissed her, then shook hands with Andy Catford. ‘I’ll get you a new fork,’ he said.
‘Get a breakfast while you’re there,’ Andy shouted after him. ‘They’re really good!’
She looked from one man to the other with a glazed expression. Just what was happening?
‘Your egg’s getting cold,’ Andy said disapprovingly. ‘Breakfasts should be eaten warm.’
Christopher re-joined them with just a roll and a cafetière of coffee. She was recovering now. ‘Just what is going on?’ she asked. ‘I really think I ought to know.’
‘I pulled a few strings,’ Christopher said, ‘even though it was late at night. There are times when a consultant can get away with more than he ought to. I got in touch with the doctors who admitted your mother and father. Apparently, your father’s in no great trouble, but your mother suffered neurological damage. Prognosis isn’t good, but they are going to operate today. It so happens that Andy is an old friend of mine so I rang him early this morning and asked him if he would do the operation. He said yes, if he wasn’t stepping on people’s toes. The hospital feels happy about it so Andy will do what he can.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Because they’re your parents and I love you.’
‘If this conversation is going to get personal,’ Andy said urbanely, ‘I’m going to fetch myself some more coffee.’ He stood and strolled back to the serving counter.
‘Love me! Christopher, I can’t cope with this right now. Life’s too confusing as it is.’
‘No problem,’ he said soberly. ‘Forget I said it for now and perhaps I’ll say it again later. Other than that, I know there’s nothing worse than just hanging round, waiting for something to happen, when you can’t do anything. So I came to help you wait. The department can manage without us both for a couple of days.’
‘I think I’ll finish my breakfast,’ she muttered. ‘Your friend Andy is right. It does help you through the day.’
Andy returned, carrying his coffee. ‘The emotional bit is over now,’ she told him. ‘We can have a proper medical discussion.’ She saw him glance at Christopher, who nodded. ‘And I don’t need his permission to talk,’ she said sharply. ‘I can make up my own mind.’
Andy smiled. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Christopher said you were tough. But you’re not a doctor now, you’re a daughter. This is your mother we’re talking about, not just an RTA case.’
‘So tell me anyhow. Talk to me as a doctor, not a daughter.’
‘I’ve examined your mother and I’ve seen the X-rays and the scans of her skull. At present she’s dangerously ill, unlikely, in fact, to regain consciousness. Possibly – I emphasise possibly – we may be able to release the pressure, cut out and repair some of the damage, see to the fragments of bone. It will be a long, difficult operation, and it might be entirely unsuccessful. She might remain in the coma, she might die. I would put her chances of a complete recovery, with a skilled surgeon, at about one in three. With me, they are one in two. I’m the best. But those are still very poor odds.’
She didn’t feel he was being breathtakingly arrogant. She knew how long neurological operations could take, how nurses and theatre technicians might come and go while the surgeon remained at the table. The sheer physical effort it took just to stand there was bad enough, but with the concentration required, when the tiniest slip of the scalpel might ruin a morning’s work, a surgeon needed to be confident in himself.
‘I still want you to do it,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell my father to give permission.’
‘Good. Then we start in about an hour. I want you nowhere near the theatre while I’m operating. In fact, I think you’d be better out of the hospital entirely.’ Andy Catford’s voice changed from that of the confident, directing surgeon to that of someone much gentler. ‘Why don’t you go and see your mother now? They’ll be taking her down to Theatre soon. Then go and speak to your father.’
See your mother now. She understood the unspoken message. See your mother while she’s still alive. She went up to Intensive Care.
Soon the nurses would come to prepare her mother for the trip down to Theatre. Megan sat by the still, frail figure, somehow diminished by the banks of equipment by her bed. The only sign of life was that gentle movement of her chest. She felt for the hand under the covers, and held it for a while, trying to control her emotions. Then the nurses came and she left.
Her father was awake, and had been given a drink. He was in pain and still a little confused, and very naturally worried about his wife. ‘He remembers nothing of the crash,’ the sister explained, ‘or of a few minutes before it.’
Retrospective amnesia, Megan thought. It wasn’t uncommon after a crash in which the head had been struck violently. Initial memories were stored electronically in the brain, and then converted into chemical storage. A violent blow could result in the electronic impulses being lost or distorted.
She went in to see him. He smiled at her as she hugged him carefully. ‘Meg, lovey, it’s good to see you,’ he said, and for the first time her eyes filled with tears. He was the only person ever to call her Meg.
‘How’s your mother?’ he asked. ‘The people here are very good, but they won’t give me a straight answer. I need to know, Meg. I don’t mind the pain but I can’t stand the uncertainty.’
‘She’s … not very good. They’re operating this morning, Dad. They’ve got the best man in the country but –’ she knew she had to tell him ‘ – it’s only about a one in two chance.’
For a while he said nothing, his eyes fixed on some scene far beyond the hospital walls. Then he said, ‘I can’t imagine life without your mother, Meg. We’re not like other couples. We work together. We’ve spent nearly all of every day together since we got married. And it’s been good …’ He looked at her directly. ‘When … if she gets better, I think we’ll sell the shop.’
‘Sell the shop?’ She looked at him in astonishment. ‘Dad, that shop’s been your life.’
‘I know. It’s been both our lives. We’ve enjoyed it, built it up, working like mad to fight off supermarkets and so on. But we’ve done it through hard work. You were the same. The only thing we ever gave you was to show you how to work hard.’
‘You gave me more than that! Dad, you gave me so much more than that! But, yes, you did show me how to work. And I love you for it.’
Her father was quiet and she saw that he was tiring. ‘Try to sleep,’ she said. ‘I’ll be outside or somewhere near.’
‘You know, we’ve never been on a cruise. There are so many places we’ve never been to, so many things we haven’t done. We’ll sell the shop. Arthur would like to buy it and we could arrange –’ He sat upright. ‘The shop! It needs to –’
She pressed him back gently. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve phoned Arthur. He’s going to open and he’ll manage quite well without you. He wants to come and see you this afternoon. He wanted to come now, but I told him to open instead.’
Her father smiled weakly. ‘You read my mind,’ he said. He paused, then went on, ‘We’ve got a fair bit saved so we’re going to live now, not just wait for the future. The future is now, Meg. Make the most of it. I’ve spent too much of my life at work – don’t you do the same.’
‘I’m learning that now. I won’t, Dad, I promise you.’
His eyelids fluttered. He was tiring rapidly. She kissed him on the forehead and left.
Christopher was waiting outside, and he wrapped his arms around her. It was comforting to be there. ‘Everything is sorted out with the hospital,’ he said. ‘The resident neurologist is very happy to work with Andy and the operation is starting now. How’s your father?’
‘Sleeping now. I think he’ll sleep most of the day.’
‘And you need to sleep but I know you won’t be able to, so why not take me on a little tour of your youth? Show me where you live, where you went to school?’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Come and see the shop.’
‘Fine. But I drive.’
Chapter Eight
It was good to get out of the hospital. Megan had absolute confidence in Andy Catford, but she was a doctor and she knew what he would be doing. She could visualise the sawing off of the top of the skull, the delicate probing with scalpels, the holding apart with retractors, the appalling danger at any time. She would have to try not to think of it.
She remembered a mature woman who’d come into her ward, expecting a late first baby. She was a doctor. With a smile Megan had said, ‘There’ll be no trouble with you, will there? You’ll not worry – you’ll know exactly what is happening.’
The woman’s returned smile was strained. ‘You know I'm a doctor, I've seen and helped in plenty of births. I know what can go wrong.’
She would leave it all to Andy. There was nothing she could do.
It was odd, showing Christopher around. Her home now seemed foreign to her. They looked at the comprehensive school she’d attended, the fields where she’d played hockey, the nursing home where she’d first worked as an assistant.
‘You’re looking lost,’ he said. ‘Something else is bothering you.’
‘I’ve lost my roots. I had one or two good friends when I was eighteen, and I’ve lost touch with them completely. Now I’m twenty-six and I realise how little time I’ve spent with my parents. I’ve concentrated so much on work. In the holidays I got live-in nursing jobs, just to get experience. I’ve done nothing but work. Dad just said something to me that’s affected me. The future is now.’
They arrived at her parents’ shop, and she looked at it with some pride. It was a prosperous-looking business in a well-to-do area. It stocked specialist foods and good-quality wines, and offered a high-quality service. It was something to be proud of.
Lifting Suspicion Page 13