‘I want to visit your mum again, Shelagh, but things are a bit hectic on surgical at present,’ he apologised. ‘Diane’s had two operations on her leg, and will need another – that tib and fib were smashed to bits, and she won’t be able to walk without crutches for some time. And to be honest, darling, she’s rather taken to me, in fact she told Mr Fielding about her preference, and he agrees that we mustn’t do anything to lessen her confidence in herself and her career. I know you’ll understand.’
‘Of course I do. I saw you pushing her in her wheelchair in the grounds yesterday afternoon,’ Shelagh replied drily; ‘and I’ve heard the rumours, of course, but I discount them. We all know that female patients often fall in love with their doctors.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Shelagh,’ he said with a slight, self-deprecating shrug. ‘Don’t forget, the poor girl has only just lost her, er, boyfriend. She’s desperately worried about her injury, and the effect it might have on her career if she’s left with a limp. Mr Fielding mentioned the possibility to her, and she’s got this idea that I’ll be able to put it right for her – I only hope that I can, for her sake. But it’s good of you to be so sweet and understanding.’
Jenny and Tim Gifford were jubilant after their interview with the adoption panel.
‘We think we did well, Mum,’ said Jenny eagerly. ‘There were two men and two women on the panel, and they asked us lots of questions – and we must have given them the right answers! There are quite a lot of poor little mites in care and available for adoption, they said. They prefer the adoptive parents to live a long way away from the birth mother, to prevent the children being followed by relatives – so we might get one from the north or the South West, maybe Wales or Scotland. The social worker told us we have to go and visit the child and the foster home at some point, to see how we get on, and if we take to the child – and he or she to us! – oh, Mum, that won’t be a problem – I feel that I love this little one already, even before we know who he or she is!’
‘Me too, Mum,’ added Tim.
Phyllis Maynard shared the happy anticipation of her daughter and son-in-law, as did Jenny’s colleagues at Everham Primary, glad to see her happy after the bitter disappointments of the past.
‘Jeremy North says he’s thrilled for us, Mum – he’s such a nice, decent man, in spite of all the talk about him leaving his family and going to live with a sister from the hospital. All we know is that he looks happy again, after being so tense and strained for so long. Good luck to him, we say!’
It was a warm summer afternoon. Shelagh’s head throbbed, and she closed her eyes momentarily, then made an effort to concentrate her mind on the matter in hand: assisting registrar Dr Rowan at an afternoon list in the gynaecological theatre. She had hardly slept during the preceding night, the Delivery Unit having been busy: even when midwives had delivered a baby, a doctor was still called upon to suture episiotomies and tears of the perineum. And she had waited around for two hours for a first-time mother to give birth: a nervous student midwife conducted the delivery under the supervision of a particularly garrulous midwife who kept exhorting the woman to push down. Early on, Shelagh had suspected that help would be needed, and finally intervened to tell the midwife to prepare for a forceps delivery. The head was high and a local anaesthetic had to be given between contractions; a long, steady pull had been required, and a baby boy was born, rather limp and slow to breathe; the midwife had taken him to clear his air passages and gently blow upon his body to stimulate him to gulp in air, and meanwhile Shelagh had to deal with a brisk blood loss which continued until expulsion of the placenta, amounting to a post-partum haemorrhage; the student midwife had given the injection of ergometrine to cause the uterus to contract, but it had been a traumatic delivery, and Shelagh wondered in retrospect if she should have sent for Dr Rowan who might have decided on caesarean section. After suturing the episiotomy, she had returned to her bed but sleep was impossible. And here she was, almost falling asleep in the gynae theatre. Dr Rowan glanced at her across the operating table.
‘You all right, Shelagh? You were up half the night with that “forks”, but you did well. The mum and baby are fine.’
‘Yes, it was a long, hard second stage for the mother – we were all exhausted.’
‘And how’s your mum these days?’
‘Not so good, Dr Rowan. The remission seems to be coming to an end.’
‘Yes, so Mr Kydd was saying. Look here, you go and have a rest. Sister can assist with these minor ops, can’t you, Sister?’
‘No problem,’ the theatre sister answered.
‘Off you go, then.’
Thankfully she stepped aside from the table, peeled off her gloves, and wriggled out of her green gown. She could have gone for a rest on her bed, but decided to use the unexpected break to call in on her mother.
Arriving home in the mid-afternoon, she was met by a dismayed Aunt Maura who put a finger to her lips and whispered, ‘Hush, Shelagh, your mother’s got a visitor!’
‘A visitor? Who?’ asked Shelagh in surprise. ‘Has Dr McGuinness called? Or Father Orlando?’
‘No, no, neither o’ them, Shelagh. I’ve put ’em in the front room,’ said Maura in some agitation. ‘The fact is, ye see, Shelagh, she wants to be left alone, not to be disturbed.’
‘What’s going on? Are you keeping something from me, Aunt Maura?’
‘No, but – ye see, we weren’t expectin’ ye.’ Poor Maura looked like a naughty child accused of wrongdoing. ‘It – it’s the doctor.’
‘What? Oh, yes, I think I see,’ said Shelagh in relief. It must be Paul! He had decided to visit Bridget after all, and reassure her about his intentions. Bless him! And before Maura could say another word, she opened the door to the front room and stepped inside. And then stopped dead. Maura followed and stood behind her. Her mother and Dr McDowall were seated together at the table, on which a number of documents were spread out.
‘What on earth is going on?’ she demanded with an annoyance that sprung from anxiety and fatigue. ‘What are you doing here, Dr McDowall? What right have you to come here in my absence to discuss private matters with my mother? What’s this?’ She stepped forward to seize an official-looking certificate from the table, but McDowall covered it with his hand.
‘Not so fast, Shelagh. It’s not how it looks. There’s nothing “going on”, as you say. Your mother and I have every right to hold a private discussion if she so wishes. We weren’t expecting you—’
‘Obviously not!’ she retorted, her face flaming. ‘I’m only her daughter, after all! Mother, I demand to know what you’ve been saying to this man—’
‘Will ye shut up, Shelagh!’ Bridget almost shouted. ‘I sent for him, so I did! I asked him to come while ye weren’t here – and can’t I ask who I please to me own house?’
She covered her face with her hands. Shelagh stared in shocked amazement, and McDowall put his arm around Bridget, drawing her head against his shoulder, and whispering gently into her ear. He then looked up at Shelagh with quiet but unanswerable authority.
‘Will you kindly leave us, Shelagh?’
Incredulously she stared at him, then turned and left the room. Maura closed the door, and followed her niece into the kitchen, where Shelagh collapsed on to a chair.
‘What have I done, Auntie, for her to send me away and let him hear all her private matters? If she wants to make a will or something, why doesn’t she send for Jamieson?’
‘Sure, there’s no harm in the man,’ soothed her aunt. ‘She sent for him, and I wasn’t to be tellin’ ye – but Bridget would never plot against ye, Shelagh, ye know that.’
‘I know, or I thought I knew,’ said Shelagh with a sob. ‘Oh, my poor mother, something’s troubling her, and why can’t she tell me?’
She was wiping her eyes when the door opened and McDowall came in. He smiled at Maura.
‘Is the kettle on, Maura? I reckon we could do with a good strong Irish brew all round, and your siste
r is to rest.’ He took hold of Shelagh’s hand. ‘Now, my dear, you must promise me never to mention this business to your mother. She’s suffered quite enough. I can assure you that we were not plotting anything against you, quite the contrary. You’ll just have to trust me. Can I have your word on that?’
She nodded dumbly. ‘I’ve got no choice. I won’t have her upset for anything.’
‘Good. What have you been up to? You look like a ghost. Did you faint in theatre or something?’
‘Nearly. Dr Rowan sent me off to rest.’
‘Good man. And now you can. Go to bed, and stay there till morning. I’ll cover for you tonight, OK?’
‘All right.’ Shelagh capitulated, afraid that she might start crying again if they argued.
When he had put all the documents away in a locked metal box, and Bridget had been settled down in her bed, Leigh McDowall left the house. Maura looked thoughtfully at her niece.
‘Sure, it’s plain to see that doctor cares about ye, Shelagh,’ she said.
‘Will she have to appear in court, Jamieson?’ asked the Reverend Derek Bolt. ‘Because if she does, I honestly don’t think that I could go through with it.’ He pictured the thin, pale, fifty-year-old woman standing there before a magistrate, and felt that he would not be able to meet her eyes.
‘She doesn’t have to appear, but it would be in her best interests to do so,’ replied the solicitor. ‘If she’s as pathetic as you say, the magistrate is more likely to be lenient, even though he’ll have to issue a restraining order. And if you’re thinking of withdrawing the charges at this stage, Mr Bolt, the case would collapse and you’d be back at square one, as would Mrs Bolt – and you’d continue to be harassed, and have to pay the costs!’
‘So what will happen?’
‘She’ll be sent a summons to appear at Winchester Magistrates’ Court on the specified date, and told to present herself, usually about an hour before the time scheduled.’
‘Will she have to wait in the same room as—?’
‘No, you’ll be separated from the start, before and after the hearing.’
‘Should I wear my clerical collar?’
‘You don’t have to, but I think you should. We need to emphasise that you’re a man of, er, Christian beliefs, and wouldn’t have brought this action lightly.’
‘But it could have the opposite effect, and make me a figure of ridicule.’
‘It’s just possible, but on the whole it would probably be to your advantage. Miss Johnson hasn’t got her own defence, and there’s no doubt that you’ll win the day.’
‘My wife wants to attend, and I can’t stop her,’ said Derek gloomily.
‘There again, it could be a good thing. She’d be your chief witness – your only witness, in fact, if called upon. On the other hand, we don’t want to give the impression that your wife forced you to bring the case by delivering an ultimatum.’
‘Even though it would be the truth.’
Mr Jamieson cleared his throat. ‘Sometimes there’s an occasion to avoid awkward truths, but if you want to win this case and preserve marital harmony, I’d rather not involve Mrs Bolt.’
Derek’s face reflected his real distress, and the solicitor clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Come on, Rev, you can’t back out now – or if you did, you’d regret it!’
So the vicar decided to go ahead. The date of the hearing was fixed for Monday, the twenty-seventh of May.
CHAPTER TEN
‘Yes, she’s going to give a huge farewell party when she’s discharged from Women’s Surgical,’ Laurie Moffatt told the maternity staff. ‘Matron was not too keen on her taking over the hospital grounds for an evening, but she fluttered her eyelashes at Dr Brooks, and showed him her chequebook, so he gave her permission. She’s going to have a big marquee set up at the back, and a posh catering firm to do the refreshments. It’ll be the biggest do in Everham since the Coronation, so Roger was telling me – he’ll be taking the photographs.’
‘And who’s going to be invited?’ asked a student midwife.
‘Everybody. Medical and nursing staff from all the wards, on duty or off. Those on duty can take it in turns to go for ten or twenty minutes, depending on how busy they are, so everybody will have a chance to hear a fond farewell from the lovely Diane Devlin!’
‘I’ll go if there’s smoked salmon on the menu, not otherwise,’ said Dr McDowall.
‘Oh, of course we must go, Leigh!’ protested Tanya Dickenson, laughing. ‘There’ll be actors from the TV studios – you’ll be there with Paul Sykes, won’t you, Dr Hammond?’
‘If I’m asked,’ replied Shelagh briefly. She found it impossible to concentrate her mind on anything other than her mother’s decline, and as soon as she could get away for her half-day, she drove home.
‘She sleeps most o’ the time, Shelagh, but she’s peaceful, and even smiles in her sleep,’ said Maura. ‘It’s ever since Dr Leigh came to see her that time – and I know I’m not supposed to mention it, but it’s true – it’s as if she was ready to – to – oh, Shelagh, she seemed to be gettin’ better, I was so sure it was a miracle—’
Shelagh put an arm around Maura’s shoulders. ‘Bless you, Auntie, for all your loving care, but it was only a temporary remission. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t want to upset you, but the end is near now. We must be grateful that she’s peaceful, no worries and no pain, thanks to the injections.’ She was about to add, ‘of morphine’, but avoided naming the drug associated with terminal illness. Father Orlando had visited to hear Bridget’s whispered Confession, and administer the Last Rites. The thought occurred to Shelagh that she could ask Paul Sykes to visit her mother and reassure her about his intentions, but she decided not to do so. No, it was too late now.
When Mr Kydd saw Denise North in the antenatal clinic, he said she was to be admitted for rest and observation. He reckoned that the babies were now at about thirty-five weeks’ gestation, and a good size. However, Denise’s blood pressure was rising, and her ankles were swollen, warning of possible toxaemia of pregnancy; he wanted to keep a close eye on her, he told Shelagh. ‘We might have to consider getting them out sooner, and that would mean caesarean section,’ he said. ‘But if she rests, lightly sedated, we should be able to get her through another couple of weeks at least.’
Knowing that Denise’s father had left home and was living with Sister Iris Oates, Shelagh felt that Iris should know about this, and went to look for her in Outpatients. She had not spoken to Iris on the subject of her relationship with Denise’s father, simply because it was none of her business, nor was it her place to judge, though other members of staff had voiced their disapproval, and Iris had been summoned to Matron’s office on account of it.
‘Did you know that Denise North has been admitted to Antenatal for rest and observation?’ Shelagh asked in a matter-of-fact way, and saw how Iris stiffened.
‘Yes, Mr North told me,’ she replied. ‘It means that he’s got one more thing to worry about, on top of all the rest. He wants to visit her at a convenient time, but doesn’t want an encounter with – with the wife, which could lead to a scene in the ward.’
‘But that needn’t affect you, Iris,’ Shelagh gently pointed out.
‘It wouldn’t help,’ the sister replied with a tightening of her lips. ‘Matron has only agreed to let me stay in my job as long as there are no “repercussions”, she says, and told me I wouldn’t get a reference if I left, not while I’m “living in sin” with the man I love. Anyway, thank you for telling me, Dr Hammond.’
‘Repercussions’ were not long in occurring. Mrs North visited her daughter every afternoon, and listened to a series of complaints about the hospital and the ward staff.
‘It’s awful in here, Mum, I’ve hardly slept a wink. The other women talk till past midnight, and then they snore like pigs. It’s no good saying anything to the night nurses about it, all they do is sit in the office, talking.’
‘The food’s terrible, Mum.
They came round with so-called beef casserole today – all fat and gristle, with a few carrots. I couldn’t eat it, and what do you think they offered me? A ham sandwich! Can you bring me in some of those little pork pies? And some pickle?’
‘The staff here couldn’t care less, Mum. That blonde sister who’s supposed to be in charge of the ward is an absolute bitch. She told me to stay in bed, though I have to get up to go to the toilet, and she told me that I grumble too much!’
‘This is too bad!’ cried her mother. ‘I’ll go and find somebody to speak to, now!’
There were no nurses in the ward office, only Dr Hammond looking through a pile of laboratory reports and putting them into case notes. She looked up when Mrs North came in.
‘I can’t say I’m very pleased with the treatment my daughter’s receiving in here, doctor,’ Mrs North began. ‘After all, she is supposed to be in here for a rest, but she isn’t getting much, what with the other patients talking half the night, and snoring. And the food is simply dreadful! I’ve had to bring her in some cold chicken and a fresh salad.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that Denise isn’t satisfied with her treatment, Mrs North,’ said Shelagh. ‘Perhaps if you had a word with the nursing staff—’
‘There’s not much use in complaining to them,’ sniffed Mrs North. ‘That blonde sister is thoroughly insensitive to those she’s supposed to be caring for, and she’s been downright rude to Denise. I thought midwives were supposed to be caring! – I intend to complain to the Matron about her.’
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