Marc said, 'Helene says she's all right for a minute. Contractions a few minutes apart and now we're here she feels much happier. You're to take off your wet things and throw them into the bath. There are cupboards and drawers through there, you're to help yourself to her clothes. I'll borrow some clothes of Claude's.'
'Stay with her till I come back,' said Lucy.
She rummaged through the cupboard, found some clothes that would do. Then she went into the bathroom as directed and dropped her wet clothes in the bath. She towelled herself dry and dressed. There was nothing she could do about her hair—there was no hairbrush to borrow.
She went back into the bedroom, looked at Marc's white face and the sodden dressing on his hand, the bloodstains coming through.
'Can you undress yourself?' she asked.
There was a dry grin. 'I will manage somehow.'
'It's just that I don't want you fainting and bashing your brains out on this stone floor. Now, go and get changed, keep warm and sit in the kitchen. Don't move till I get there. You're going into shock. I'll look at Helene here and then see to your hand.'
She opened her midwife's bag and smiled down at Helene. She wondered how she'd cope, not being able to speak the language. As if guessing her thoughts, Marc turned in the door and said mockingly, 'The French for push is poussez.'
'I know that! Now go and do as you're told.'
She examined Helene, took the necessary observations. The baby seemed to be doing fine. Good heartbeat. She had a blank partogram form in her bag; it was second nature to fill in the details just as if she were in the delivery suite at home. She expected that the French would have some equivalent. It seemed as if it was going to be a perfectly straightforward birth, the kind she had supervised often.
Helene was a perfect patient. Now she had help, she seemed quite content to let nature take its course. The fact that she couldn't understand English didn't seem to bother her. And surprisingly Lucy found that they were able to communicate remarkably well.
She patted Helene on the shoulder, pointed that she was going into the kitchen, held up her fingers and pointed to the clock to indicate that she would be five minutes. Then she indicated her hand. Helene nodded. She'd be all right on her own while Lucy saw to Marc's hand.
Lucy went into the kitchen and put the kettle on the gas stove. Then she searched the cupboards and found coffee and sugar. She made Marc a cup and gave it to him.
'I don't take sugar!'
'Today you do. Treatment for shock. Now, I'm going to check your blood pressure and heart rate.' She rested her hand on the side of his face. 'You're getting cold. I'm going to get you a blanket.'
'Lucy, I am not going to let you—'
'Yes, you are! You brought me here, but now I'm here I'm in charge. So let's have a look at that hand.'
She wasn't a nurse but she managed to keep her expression calm as she examined Marc's hand. She took what was necessary from his bag, cleaned the wounds as best she could and then held them together with butterfly stitches. A dressing followed and then she fashioned him a sling.
'Last thing, analgesics,' she said.
His face was white again. In spite of all her care she had had to hurt him. But he said, 'I don't need any painkillers.'
'You do. One thing a midwife learns is how to assess pain.' She looked through his bag. 'I'm going to give you diamorphine. Suffering pain when you don't have to is just foolish.' It only took a minute to give him the injection. 'Now, lie back and try to relax. I'll be next door and if I need you to translate, I'll call you.'
She went back to Helene. Things were progressing normally. Lucy sighed with relief. Yes, this should be a normal birth and she had enough equipment in her bag to make sure that it was a safe one. She let Helene squeeze her hand as another contraction hit her.
Then the lights flickered, went out and came on again. Lucy thought she felt the house tremble. There was an outburst of French from Helene. Lucy just smiled encouragingly and shook her head. What else could she do?
There had been the dual problems of Helene and Marc. She had quite forgotten the biggest problem of all. What about a mudslide? She went to the kitchen where Marc was shining the torch out of the window.
'Mudslide,' he said. 'Look, you can see where it washed past. That was just one. The next could be far worse. Lucy, there's no need for you to risk your life. You told me the birth was going to be straightforward. I can manage so why don't you go down the path and I—?'
'Tell you what,' she interrupted, 'I agree. No need to risk life. So you go down the path and I stay here.'
'That's ridiculous!'
'Why is it? It makes sense to me.' She assessed him. 'Marc, I think you're basically an honest man, so give me an honest answer to this question. Never mind that you want to be macho and look after me at the risk of your own life. What are the chances of us being killed if we stay here?'
The question seemed to hang between them and the silence went on and on. Finally he said, 'I think that anyone who stays in this farmhouse stands a fair chance of being killed if there's another mudslide.'
'Then we ought to live wildly while we can.' She took his head between her hands and kissed him fiercely on the lips. 'We might be killed in a minute so let's live for the minute. I know you've got problems, know you've got duties. But I want you to know, Marc Duvallier, that I love you. I love you, I said. It's a word that neither of us has used so far. And if I'm killed in the next hour or so my dying thought will be of you.'
An urgent call came from the next room. 'Lucy, Lucy! Come!'
'Sounds like work is calling,' she said.
When she came back fifteen minutes later, Marc was asleep. Thank goodness for analgesics. And it was a good natural reaction to trauma and pain. She put another blanket over him and left him.
After that, she had work. They felt one more small tremor as they were hit by something, but both she and Helene were busy. Helene had intended to go to hospital, but everything went smoothly and eventually she was holding a newborn son to her breast and crying tears of joy. Lucy was crying too. She always enjoyed this bit.
Lucy tidied up, tried to make sense of Helene's French. She felt that she'd done a competent job in difficult circumstances. And for some reason she felt in no danger.
She peered out of the window and for the first time saw a clear sky, the odd star, the suggestion of dawn in the distance. All was well. She pulled up a chair to the side of Helene's bed and yawned. Now she was very tired. For just five minutes she could close her eyes.
She was woken up by the loudest noise she had ever heard. She was not the only one. She also heard the tiny wail of a disturbed newborn. The noise got even louder. Now Helene was awake too, shouting at her in French. Lucy ran into the kitchen. The noise got impossibly louder then diminished to a clatter. She joined Marc, who was standing by the window.
'Help is at hand,' he remarked.
And she saw, not fifty yards away, a helicopter. Men in uniform were running towards the farmhouse. She went outside, waved to them. And as she looked around she saw a great smear of mud had passed within feet of the farmhouse. If it had hit them...
She looked at the village below. There was Claude, toiling up towards them. She waved to him, tried to indicate that it was good news. He waved back. Then she went into the farmhouse again.
The crew from the helicopter were very efficient. Helene and her baby were prepared for a trip to hospital, and a paramedic trained in midwifery was looking with approval at Lucy's partogram. The details were clear in French or English. Then Lucy went to see Marc, who was deep in conversation with another paramedic who was examining his hand.
'You're going to hospital to have your hand seen to properly,' Lucy told him. 'We both know that you need to see a neurologist.'
'But what about you?'
'There's nothing wrong with me. A doctor needs his hands. Get yours seen to.'
'You should come with me to the hospital!'
'No
need at all. Claude is coming up, I'm sure he'll get me back to the castle.'
'But we have things to—'
She bent over and kissed him. Quickly, like a friend. 'Forget anything I said last night,' she said. 'I was scared, I didn't know what I was saying. It never happened. Now, you're keeping Helene and her baby waiting. Off you go.'
She felt him watching her as she left the kitchen and started to walk down the path. Perhaps five minutes later there was the deafening roar of rotors again and the helicopter clattered into the air. She didn't look back at it.
Claude spoke no English. He had seen the helicopter, knew it was the medical one and was worried. But Lucy calmed him. She smiled a lot, remembered what she could of schoolgirl French. 'Petit garcon', she managed—little boy. 'Helene heureuse'—Helene happy. 'Tout bien'—all OK.
She pretended she had a baby in her arms, rocked him and smiled. There was a big smile back from Claude—and a loud kiss on each cheek.
Then he helped her down into the village. As they staggered and slipped downwards, Lucy looked at the great slides of mud that had passed so close. If one of those had hit... but it hadn't. They passed the mud-stained Mercedes, forlorn on its side. Lucy looked at it and shivered.
By now she was almost past feeling, this was a greater fatigue than any she had felt in her life before. She got down to the village, someone loaded her into a car and she was driven to the castle. And Clotilde was there to meet her, as calm as ever. Even at that hour she looked smart. Lucy was conscious of her borrowed clothes, of her hair being a mess. She was surprised when Clotilde took her hands and kissed her gently on both cheeks.
'We, the family and the village, owe you so much,' she said. 'I have heard from the hospital, they have arrived safely. Marc will have surgery on his hand later, the mother and child are doing well. Now Marthe here will bring a meal to your room. I suspect you will want a bath and to sleep. You have done very well and there is no need to worry about anything further. I will see that you are not disturbed.'
Thank goodness for efficiency, Lucy thought. She managed the meal, fell into the bath and then into bed. She slept at once.
Lucy woke at lunchtime and thought back over the past few hours. She felt almost detached from what had happened, distanced from all of the participants. It might have happened to someone else. And she knew what she had to do next.
She dressed and went downstairs. There was Simone and Clotilde sitting with Lucille on her lap, showing more animation than she had done ever before.
'Lucy, are you all right?' Simone asked, 'I slept through it all but when I woke up and there was this note from Marc. I was worried.'
'All right, Simone, don't excite yourself,' Clotilde said. 'I'm sure Lucy is better now she's rested. Now, Lucy, do sit down and we'll have tea in a moment. And before you ask, the hospital has been in touch again. Marc has had the operation on his hand. It was badly damaged, but they think that they have restored all movement, all feeling.'
'That's so good,' said Lucy. 'I was so worried.'
'We were all worried,' said Clotilde, showing no sign of it. 'And the road has now been cleared so I'm going to see him in hospital in an hour.'
Tea was brought to them on a large silver tray. Lucy accepted a cup and said, 'Could you give me a lift? Then I will take the train to Lyon. I believe there is a good service.'
'Please! I thought you might like to stay a while. At least until you have recovered from your ordeal. And I know Marc will want to see you.'
'I've recovered now,' said Lucy, who hadn't. 'I really should get back. And I'm not needed any more for Simone or Lucille. Or Marc.'
'We still don't want you to go,' said Simone, but Lucy knew that her wishes now didn't count for too much.
'Would you like to call in to see Marc in the hospital?' Clotilde asked.
'There's no need. He needs his family now. I'll see him when he gets back to England.'
'As you wish. We will leave in an hour.'
'It won't take me long to pack,' said Lucy.
She knew she was still in a half-dream state. She had seen it before when people had had a shock. It took a couple of days before they realised the full enormity of what had happened.
There was a final goodbye to Simone and Lucille. Clotilde told her that she would see to the borrowed clothes and those Lucy had abandoned in the farmhouse would be sent on to her, along with her abandoned midwife's bag. Then it was into another large car, driven by a chauffeur. Clotilde was dropped off at the hospital.
'I say again,' Clotilde said, 'that I would like you to stay. I know Marc would too.'
But in spite of all her protests, Lucy insisted on being driven to the airport at Lyon. Madame phoned ahead and reserved a seat on a flight to England.
Some time later Lucy landed in Manchester. She was travelling light; it was easy to take a train from the airport. Another hour and she was a bus ride from home.
She could have gone to stay with her parents. But she wanted—she needed—to be alone. She got to her room at nine that night. She had a shower, made cocoa, sat on the bed. Then she burst into tears.
Next morning she went to Jenny's office. 'I'm back and I'm fine and I need to start work at once,' she said.
Jenny looked up. 'I've heard from this French hospital,' she said. 'What's this about you practising abroad? Don't they have midwives of their own?'
'None in the area when we needed one,' said Lucy. 'Have you...? Did you hear about Marc's hand?'
Jenny frowned. 'Apparently the hand was a mess. He'll be there a while. But he'd not be much use to us here without two hands. Still, they say they'll let us know.'
She leaned back in her chair, looked up at Lucy. 'You can tell me all about it later—but for now, how did you get on with Marc?'
'I got on fine. I was just doing a job. Now, am I back in the delivery suite?'
It was good to be back in at work, working hard took her mind off things. She was doing a good job, helping with the births of fine, squalling babies, in safe, comfortable, hygienic conditions. This was the work she had chosen. But occasionally she thought back. She remembered how she had been in a rocking house, halfway up a mountain, not knowing whether she was going to live or die. And she had never felt more alive. Because she had been with Marc.
It was three days since she had returned, she had finished the day's shift and now she lay on her bed and thought. Once again she had turned down an invitation to go to the Red Lion and have a quiet—or loud—drink with a few friends. This avoidance of a social life was not like her. But for the moment she had just lost interest in that kind of thing.
She thought about Marc and how she had told him she still loved him when she had thought they had been in danger. It was true, of course. But she now realised that saying it had brought it out into the open. She couldn't deny it to herself now.
He had told her that their affair could go no further because of his commitment to the village. Now she had met his mother, seen the village and met some of the villagers, she understood what he meant. He—or someone—was needed there.
In fact, on the last day, when the sun had come out and she had seen the valley in all its beauty, she had felt an attraction. But he was right. She would not be happy there, she was a people person.
But she loved Marc. There was no getting away from it, she loved Marc. And seeing him at his best had made her love him more. He knew what he had to do and he was going to do it.
She closed her eyes, leaned back. She could see him in her mind's eye. She could remember every last detail—his eyes, his hair, his body... Leaning back in his chair as they had eaten under an umbrella in southern France. Or looking at her in the back of the car, when he had thought her asleep. Or when she had stayed the night at his flat and they had... She was torturing herself. This was foolish!
There was a knock on the door. June, down the corridor, had said she wanted to borrow a book so it would be her. 'Come in, June,' she called.
Lucy hear
d the door open and a voice said, 'It's not June. Will I do?'
She jerked upright, stared in shock at the man in the doorway. It was Marc! Just as she had been dreaming. Perhaps his face was a little thinner and his arm was in a sling. But it was certainly Marc.
'What are you doing here?' she asked stupidly.
'I came to see you. As soon as I could.'
She still had difficulty believing he was really there. 'But I thought you had to stay in hospital?'
'I'm a doctor. I can talk other doctors round. I've been transferred to the neurological department here.'
He came to sit next to her, put his uninjured arm round her shoulders and pulled her to him. 'Besides, I told them that the very best therapy possible for me was here. Remember how Simone seemed to improve when she got to the castle? Well, it's the same here with me. Though for different reasons.'
Then he kissed her. For a moment, for as long as he wanted to. She was willing to let him. But then she had to ease him away.
'Marc, we can't do this! And it was you that decided, not me.'
Mildly he said, 'You changed the rules halfway up a wet mountain. You kissed me, told me you loved me!'
'That was different! I was afraid that we might die at any minute.'
'Aren't people supposed to tell the truth when they're about to die? Were you telling the truth? Do you still love me?'
'Yes, but... Marc, please, don't do this to me,' she sobbed. 'Haven't I suffered enough?'
His face was contrite. 'Lucy, sweetheart, I'm so sorry. The last thing I want is for you to suffer. I've suffered myself; I know what it's like.'
She couldn't stop him when he quickly kissed her again. Then he said, quite clearly, 'Lucy Stephens, I love you.'
What? Was she hearing things?
'Well, if you can say it, so can I,' he pointed out reasonably. 'I'll say it again. Lucy Stephens, I love you.'
'But I thought you said... And after seeing you in Montreval... And knowing what it's like, and your mother and I...'
The Noble Doctor Page 14