When You Walked Back Into My Life

by Hilary Boyd

  ‘I don’t think she would.’

  Flora looked hard at Dorothea. ‘What do you mean? She could, easily. Tomorrow if you’d like.’

  Dorothea stared back and Flora held her breath. She could see her patient wavering, trying to make a decision. Tell me, just tell me, she thought.

  ‘I … don’t want to put Rene to any trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. There’s an agency. She just has to ring them and they’ll fix it up. It’s really not a problem.’

  Dorothea sank back onto the pillow and closed her eyes, her face suddenly lax with exhaustion.

  ‘I would rather you left things as they are,’ she whispered.

  Flora wanted to shake the truth out of her, but she knew she couldn’t badger her any more. She tucked the old lady’s arms beneath the duvet and turned out the light.

  ‘Good night,’ she said. Dorothea didn’t answer.

  Flora watched television till around ten o’clock, then changed into a T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms and a pair of Fin’s climbing socks. The nurse’s room, next to Dorothea’s, had a single bed. Flora lay down gingerly where so many nurses had slept – despite Mary having changed the sheets. The bed had probably been bought pre-war; the mattress was ancient horsehair and iron-hard, the rusty springs making uncomfortable lumps which she had to negotiate in order to find a place to lie. The polyester filling in the narrow duvet wasn’t nearly warm enough for the cold December night. She knew she wouldn’t sleep much and wondered how Mary put up with this night after night.

  She must have dozed off, because she woke with a start to the sound of Dorothea’s bell. She got up, dazed, acutely aware of the cold.

  ‘I’m here,’ she told the old lady, not turning the main light on, but able to see in the light from the hall. ‘Do you want to go to the toilet?’

  Dorothea nodded but made no attempt to sit up. ‘I … I don’t feel very well.’

  ‘Do you feel sick?’

  Flora saw the old lady shake her head on the pillow. ‘Hot … I feel hot …’

  She placed her hand on Dorothea’s forehead. It was burning. She quickly turned the light on. Her patient’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittering with fever.

  Flora fetched the thermometer and put it gently in her ear. It read 39.2.

  ‘Have you got a headache?’

  Dorothea looked confused for a moment. ‘I … have.’ She raised her hand to her face and held it against her cheek. ‘I don’t think I can get up.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to, I’ll bring the bedpan.’

  Flora looked at her watch. It was just before midnight. Should she ring the doctor? Dorothea’s temperature was very high. It could be flu, she thought. Was that what had been bothering her earlier? That she hadn’t been feeling well?

  She settled the old lady and decided she had to call the surgery. She knew Dr Kent was on call some nights, and although she was loath to wake him if he was, she had never trusted the doctors who did locum work at night. They could be so brusque and uncaring, impatient unless it was a case of life or death.

  But her call was immediately patched through to Simon’s mobile.

  ‘Hey, Flora,’ he said, his voice thick with sleep. ‘What’s the problem?’

  She told him and he said he’d be over in ten minutes.

  He arrived in jeans and a navy jumper under his tweed coat.

  ‘Bloody freezing out there.’ He rubbed his hands together briskly, then he put his bag down and took his coat and scarf off.

  ‘Sorry to drag you out in the middle of the night. I just thought over thirty-nine was a bit high.’

  ‘Absolutely. Let’s take a look.’

  ‘Hello … Flora tells me you don’t feel so well.’ The old lady gave him a wan smile as he began to examine her gently. ‘Do you have a sore throat?’ She nodded, swallowing with difficulty then beginning to cough.

  ‘When did you first notice she had a temperature?’ he asked Flora.

  ‘Just now. She was fine when she went to sleep … at least, there weren’t any signs of fever then.’

  ‘I think it’s probably flu, she’s got all the symptoms. I’m going to start her on Tamiflu.’

  ‘But she had the jab in September.’

  ‘There’s quite a virulent strain going round at the moment. It’s not hit the Daily Mail yet, and I’ve only seen a couple of cases, but a colleague in the Midlands has been inundated.’

  Back in the hall he hesitated. ‘You wouldn’t do me a cup of tea would you?’

  ‘God, sorry. Of course. I thought you’d want to get back to bed as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I’m not on till the afternoon tomorrow, and I know I won’t sleep yet.’

  They sat together in the sitting room, each with a cup of tea. The low light from the single lamp and the isolating stillness of the night made for an unusual sense of intimacy.

  ‘I promise and swear that I won’t bang on about my problems this time,’ Flora whispered.

  There was silence.

  ‘You see? If we don’t talk about you and the leopard, we have nothing to say to each other.’

  ‘That’s because it’s a weird relationship.’

  ‘Ours?’

  Flora nodded. ‘We’re sort of not quite colleagues or friends. And we have to be professional around each other. I broke the code by telling you about my boyfriend.’

  ‘So should we stick to the price of incontinence pads then?’ He looked amused.

  ‘Not sure how it works. If we were in a hospital or an office we’d be properly working together on stuff. But here we just stand in the hall and whisper.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘This flat’s a limbo place, it creates a bizarre sort of family,’ she went on. ‘We’re thrown together for a while, then it’s over and we never see each other again.’

  ‘I don’t like the thought that we …’ He stopped.

  She sipped her tea. ‘Tell me about your ballroom dancing.’

  He grinned. ‘Nothing much to tell. I’m not very good, I just love it.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re being modest.’

  ‘Promise I’m not.’ He paused. ‘Come on, get up. I’ll give you a demo.’

  She laughed. ‘No way. I told you, I can’t dance. Anyway, we’ll wake Dorothea.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll be really, really quiet.’ He was pulling her to her feet. Before she had time to object any further, he had put his right arm around her body and taken her left hand in his, stretching her arm outwards. She was intensely aware that she had just a thin T-shirt on, no bra. ‘You know how to waltz?’

  She pulled a face.

  ‘OK, left foot back … right to the side … just follow my feet.’ He began softly humming John Denver’s ‘Annie’s Song’ – she remembered her mother loving it and playing it over and over – and took off between the furniture, spinning her round at a smooth, dignified pace in the half-lit room. ‘You fill up my senses …’ he sang. ‘Don’t look at your feet … relax.’

  His arm brought her closer. She was laughing now, trying to follow his steps, stumbling sometimes, but picking it up with his confident instruction. Very soon she fell into the rhythm and began to enjoy herself, swept up in his firm embrace, singing along with the doctor: ‘Like a night in a forest …’

  ‘You’re a natural,’ he spoke in a stage whisper as they stopped, breathless and laughing, falling onto the sofa together.

  ‘That was brilliant!’

  ‘You should come along one day. You’d love it.’

  For a moment they sat in breathless silence.

  When she glanced across at him, she found he was gazing at her, a dark, penetrating stare from his brown eyes that made her feel intensely vulnerable and exposed. She crossed her arms around her body, realising that she was blushing.

  Noticing it, his own expression suddenly clouded with embarrassment.

  ‘What am I like, dancing in my pyjamas in the middle of the night.’ She spoke lightly to
deflect the sudden tension.

  He smiled but didn’t answer, bending his head to his cup.

  Flora was aware of the raised beat of her heart in the still, shaded room. Simon Kent met her eyes and the look between them held for a long second.

  ‘It was … fun.’ His voice was no more than a murmur. He drained his tea. ‘I’d better get home.’ He pulled himself off the sofa.

  Flora got up too, shyness making her next remark sound stilted and formal.

  ‘Listen, thanks for coming out. It could probably have waited till morning.’

  ‘Nope, it couldn’t. She needed to start the Tamiflu as soon as poss if it’s going to have any effect.’

  The atmosphere was once more professional between them, merely doctor to nurse.

  ‘You know what to do. Keep her fluids up, plenty of rest, light diet. Keep an eye on her temperature. See how she goes.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll drop by tomorrow evening, after surgery, but obviously call if there’s any deterioration.’ He pulled on his coat, wrapping his scarf hastily round his neck as if he was suddenly desperate to be gone. ‘Thanks for the tea … and the dance.’

  She went to check on Dorothea after he’d gone. The old lady was asleep, her cheeks still flushed with the fever, and Flora crept back to bed. What went on there? she asked herself, trying to get warm under the synthetic duvet. Did I imagine that look? She remembered her own response to it and immediately rejected the memory. She fell asleep to the strains of John Denver’s song still playing in her head.

  Dorothea was restless all night, constantly calling out, even if not for assistance, as if the fever were giving her bad dreams. But each time she called, Flora woke and went to see if she was alright, pushing fluids, checking that she was comfortable. By the morning they were both wan and exhausted.

  Flora got dressed just before Pia was due to arrive. She didn’t want to leave Dorothea, ill as she was, with the day nurse, but Pia was full of concern and sympathy for the old lady.

  Flora went in to say goodbye to Dorothea, Pia following close on her heels.

  Dorothea looked at her as Flora took her hand.

  ‘You’re not going are you?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  Dorothea looked past her at the smiling Pia, then looked away again. The Filipina nurse bustled into the room and sat on the bed.

  ‘Hello, Miss Dorothy. Flora says you not so well today.’

  Dorothea forced a small smile.

  ‘I think it best you stay in bed till you feel better,’ Pia continued, stroking the old lady’s hand with her own plump one.

  Dorothea looked down at her hand, not returning the nurse’s touch. She glanced at Flora, who had moved towards the door.

  ‘When are you coming back?’

  ‘Tomorrow. If I can, I’ll drop by later to see how you are.’

  ‘You no worry, I look after Miss Dorothy very well.’ Pia’s concern seemed genuine.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Flora replied, wondering if the clear antipathy the old lady had towards Pia was just one of those paranoid fixations that older people sometimes get about certain people – even blameless sons and daughters – convinced they are trying to steal their money or sell their house, do them harm in some way.

  ‘I hope you feel better soon,’ Flora said.

  ‘I … don’t think I will,’ Dorothea said, a note of reproach in her voice.

  *

  When Flora got home, Fin was still asleep, although it was nearly nine-thirty. She got undressed quickly and crawled in beside him. He was deliciously warm as she snuggled against him. He half woke up and drew her into his side, kissing her on the top of her head.

  ‘Good night?’

  ‘No, lousy,’ she replied, making a decision not to mention dancing with Dr Kent around Dorothea’s sitting room in the dead of night. It was innocent fun, she told herself, at the same time knowing there was an edge of something more than that in the doctor’s eyes.

  ‘Go to sleep then,’ he ordered, stroking the hair back from her face and kissing her gently on the lips, ‘before I stop you.’

  It was nearly midday when she woke, the bed empty beside her.

  She padded through to the sitting room to find Fin in his usual position on the sofa. He got up to make her some coffee. As she related the events of the night, he kept shaking his head.

  ‘Poor you. You’re exhausted and you have to go back to work tomorrow. I thought you said you’d be able to sleep.’

  ‘It was unusual last night. She was ill.’

  ‘But you look terrible. I think next time Mary wants a night off you should ask the agency to sort it.’

  ‘Please, can we not have another conversation about the iniquities of my job? It doesn’t help.’

  He looked at her as if he were battling with a decision about whether to go on arguing or not.

  ‘No, you’re right. Sorry. We’re together, that’s all that matters.’ He came towards her, holding his hand out to her as she sat on the sofa. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed for a bit?’

  But she couldn’t respond because she suddenly felt really nauseous. She held her breath, waiting, hoping that it would go away.

  ‘Flo?’

  She heard his voice as if from a long way away as she made a dash for the bathroom, where she was violently sick.

  Fin was right behind her. ‘Flo … Flo, are you alright?’

  She groaned. ‘God … I don’t know where that came from.’

  He hovered over her. ‘You’ve probably got Dorothea’s bug.’

  ‘I bloody hope not.’ She filled the tooth mug with water and rinsed her mouth out. ‘I still feel sick.’

  ‘You’d better get back to bed.’

  He tucked her in and sat beside her, his expression contrite. ‘I didn’t mean to hassle you … I just look forward to the weekends with you so much.’

  ‘I look forward to them too. This weekend was an exception. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘I was just being childish.’

  He was searching her face, looking for forgiveness, and she was willing to give it. She took his hand and kissed it. But she knew it was increasingly a pattern between them. He would pick a fight, she would get upset, he would apologise. She lay back, holding her stomach, waiting for the nausea to go away. She didn’t want to live like this, and she knew he didn’t either.

  *

  Dorothea was not looking much better when she arrived for work. The fever had abated and her cheeks were no longer flushed, but now she looked chalk-white and listless.

  Flora let her stay in bed again. She had little appetite, but Flora poached some haddock for her lunch, just in case. She laid the fish in the saucepan with a little milk and put it on to boil, but when she took the lid off the pan, she was suddenly overcome with nausea again and had to rush off to the bathroom. She wasn’t actually sick, but she retched repeatedly over the toilet bowl. She felt cold and shaky and leant against the basin for support. The bell rang. She dragged herself to the door, cursing.

  ‘God, you look like death!’ Dr Kent immediately took her by the elbow and steered her into the sitting room, pushing her gently onto the sofa.

  ‘I felt sick, but I wasn’t sick. Just retching.’

  She sank gratefully against the cushions, gave him a rueful smile.

  ‘I’d better call Rene, get another nurse on board,’ he said. ‘Do you have her number?’

  Flora nodded. ‘Listen, I’ll be OK in a minute. It happened at the weekend as well, and I was completely fine later.’

  ‘Do you have a headache, sore throat?’ He sat by her and took her pulse, laid his palm against her forehead.

  ‘No … nothing.’

  ‘You don’t seem feverish. He was looking at her questioningly. ‘Umm …’

  ‘Umm what?’

  ‘Just a thought … might you be pregnant?’

  ‘Pregnant?’ The word fell like a whisper between them, carried away b
y the sheer improbability of the idea.

  ‘Only a suggestion.’

  ‘I can’t be.’

  Simon Kent raised his eyebrows. ‘“Can’t be” as in totally out of the question? Or “can’t be” as in I can’t believe I am?’

  Flora thought back to that one night in Scotland when they hadn’t had a condom. He didn’t come inside her, but still …’

  She felt a flush rise to her cheeks.

  ‘It is possible, I suppose.’

  ‘Have your periods been normal?’ He was being very professional with her, his expression neutral.

  She thought back. ‘No … but then they never are, haven’t been for a few years now. I had a slight bleed a couple of weeks ago, but now I think about it, it wasn’t a proper period.’

  He got up. ‘Perhaps you should take a test.’

  She stared at him, remembering the dancing, the odd moment between them on Saturday night. But his face was shut down, she had no idea what he was thinking.

  ‘You should definitely call Rene and get another nurse. You can’t work if you’re feeling nauseous all the time.’

  ‘I’ll call her in a minute,’ Flora told him, knowing that she wouldn’t. She didn’t want to go home yet, not until she knew for certain.

  ‘Would it be good news?’ Dr Kent was asking.

  ‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘No … well … it’s not brilliant timing.’

  The doctor looked as if he were waiting for her to say more, but she couldn’t speak, she was just holding onto herself, almost breathless.

  She thought he said he would look in on the old lady, and she thought he called goodbye, but she was in too much of a daze to know for certain.

  *

  ‘Just nipping to the chemist,’ Flora told Keith. She had waited till she was sure the doctor was well away before checking on Dorothea, then grabbing her purse and her coat. She felt cold with shock, her heart fluttering uncomfortably in her chest.

  ‘How’s Miss H-T getting on then? Haven’t seen her about since last week.’

  ‘Got the flu.’ She was dying to just get the kit, do the test, stop the unbearable suspense. But the porter was in a conversational mood.