Village Midwife, Blushing Bride

by Gill Sanderson

  ‘Hi, Jo. I’m fine,’ said Zoe. ‘The casserole was gorgeous. But I’m exhausted, I’m going to bed and I’ll see you at work first thing in the morning.’

  Her friend was the reason she and Jamie were here. Jo was now her husband’s practice manager in the Derbyshire market town of Buckley and when the community midwife position fell vacant she had been in no doubt as to who should fill it. Zoe remembered the energy that had tumbled out of the letter…

  …know you are coping, you always do, but you can’t tell me you’re happy. You need a complete change and so does Jamie—probably more than you. Forget the hospital, love. You’ve liked Buckley when you’ve come on visits—now come for real and be our practice midwife. The primary school is just next door to the surgery and, what’s more, I can find you a ready-made home that I know you’ll love. It’s a converted coach house at the bottom of the garden belonging to one of our doctors. Please say yes, Zoe. Sam and I won’t tell anybody what Neil was really like. It’ll be a chance for a fresh start for you and Jamie.

  Zoe shook herself back to the present. Jo was still talking. ‘…really sorry we couldn’t get out of Sam’s auntie’s eightieth to help you move in, but there you go. Have you met Connor yet?’

  That would be her new landlord. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, I thought he might have popped over. He must have been out on one of his hikes. Anyway, don’t worry. Once you get to know him, he’ll be fine.’

  Zoe hadn’t been worried—until now. A faint anxiety stirred. ‘What do you mean, once I get to know him?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m blethering. I’m just so pleased you’re finally here.’

  ‘Me too. Thanks for everything, Jo.’ Zoe clicked the phone off.

  A late bee buzzed against the honeysuckle. Zoe shooed it away and closed the window. From upstairs it was possible to see part of Dr Connor Maitland’s house. Lights flashed on; he must have just come home.

  It was a big house for one man. Zoe had hoped her landlord would have children for Jamie to play with, but apparently he lived by himself. ‘He’s got a brother and two sisters,’ Jo had said, ‘but he doesn’t see much of them.’

  Zoe had felt a twinge of envy. She would have loved to be part of a big family. ‘They don’t visit often?’

  ‘Not as often as he needs. And he never goes up to see them. I’ve always liked the look of the house, though, so when it came on the market I told him places like that were in short supply and it was a bargain.’

  ‘Jo!’ If her friend had one fault, it was a tendency to manage other people’s lives.

  ‘What? Running this practice isn’t just a question of medicine. Three years Connor’s been here now. That’s too long to live a hermit existence. Room for his relations was vital. They’d be good for him.’

  A hermit existence, indeed. The poor man probably just couldn’t cope with Jo’s particular brand of bonhomie. As Zoe gazed at the house she saw a dark figure come out of French windows at the back. Dr Maitland himself, she presumed. He sat on a seat and sipped from the mug in his hand. She knew it was now too dark for him to see her but she still moved back a little.

  Because the figure was just an outline, it looked odd—menacing or lonely, she didn’t know which. Normally, she would have made herself presentable and walked across to introduce herself. But she was tired, and Jamie might wake and panic, and…and the figure seemed to want to be alone. Zoe was very familiar with that time at the end of the day when all you wanted was to be able to sit—and not think. Dr Maitland would be at the surgery tomorrow. She’d say hello then.

  Connor was tidying up the small theatre suite. Nobody worried about rank at Buckley Medical Centre. The place needed to be left ready in case of emergency but they were short-handed today. He’d finished his list for the morning so he was the one getting clean scrubs out of the dryer and putting them ready on the shelves. Truth to tell, he liked doing it. Post-surgery was always an awkward time for him—this gave him a chance to wind down.

  He shook out the last few items from the tumble dryer with rather more force than was necessary, thinking of the life he’d lost. He was making a go of it as a GP, but it was sometimes difficult to feel the sense of fulfilment he’d hoped for—especially on a surgery day. Suturing injuries and doing joint injections assisted by one chatty scrub-cum-practice nurse was a far cry from the lifesaving operations he’d used to excel at. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the team of top-notch personnel in the theatre, the bright clear lights, the tension. It was…hard coming down to this. His grandma had always said pride went before a fall. Connor now knew what she meant. He hoped his courteous manner towards the patients never changed, but he was aware that his ambivalent feelings often made him short with his colleagues in the practice. Having this time alone after surgery helped him to adjust all over again to the way his life had changed.

  Zoe’s head was whirling at the speed with which Jo had propelled her on an induction tour of the medical centre. Originally it had been a large Victorian house built, presumably, for a large Victorian family, but it had been added to and modernised over the years. Now there were rooms everywhere. There were even two four-bed wards left over from its cottage hospital days. These were used for overnight stays or emergencies when Buckley was cut off by snow or floods.

  ‘And this is the day-surgery suite,’ said Jo, turning into yet another corridor. ‘If we’re short-handed and you’re not busy, I might ask you to assist sometimes. You’ve still got up-to-date scrub-nurse certificates, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes—it pays to be multi-talented.’ It had been an easy skill to acquire—and, the way Neil had run through money at times, Zoe had been glad of the security that occasional extra shift-work had brought.

  Jo had just opened the door when her mobile handset went. ‘Sorry, my next visitor’s arrived early. Oh, good, you’re still here, Connor. This is Zoe Hilton, our new midwife and your new tenant. I’ve got to fly. Walk her back to my office when you’ve introduced yourselves, would you? There’s a love.’ And, with a gentle push on Zoe’s back, Jo was gone.

  Zoe found herself propelled into a small laundry room. As with everything else at Buckley, it was hospital-style in miniature. Enough like her normal working environment to be comforting, unlike enough to be disconcerting.

  ‘Exit one practice manager who only ever moves at full speed,’ the occupant of the room said drily. ‘It makes working here stimulating.’

  Zoe turned around—and gaped. He was fabulous! Why hadn’t Jo warned her? Probably she’d thought she was past being influenced by a man’s looks. After all, Neil had been fan-tastically good-looking, and see where that had got her—to devastating, long drawn out heartbreak. She’d vowed never again and she’d meant it, but still, this man took her breath away!

  ‘Jo’s always been that way,’ she said, trying to beat down the shocking feeling of attraction. ‘I’ve known her for years.’

  Connor Maitland was nothing like Neil, but somehow he was even more striking. He was wearing shapeless green scrubs that nevertheless indicated a muscular body beneath them. He was tall, wiry, with dark hair a bit longer than was fashionable. Deep lines on his face suggested there had been a period of considerable pain in his life, but otherwise that face was…Oh, for goodness’ sake, Zoe! What was she doing, standing like a dumbstruck schoolgirl? Get a grip!

  She walked over, reached for his proffered hand and…‘Ow!’ She rubbed her palm vigorously. ‘Did you see that? There was a spark. It jumped from your hand to mine. And it hurt.’

  Dr Maitland seemed equally shaken. He snapped his eyes away from hers and cleared his throat. ‘Static electricity. It’s a dry day and I’ve just been emptying the dryer. I must have been charged and you earthed me.’

  Charged? Earthed? Zoe knew about static electricity, of course; sometimes when she pulled her silk nightdress over her head she could see the tiny sparks flashing from her body. But never had she felt a spark jump from someone’s body to hers.
<
br />   He put out his hand again. ‘It’s not a nice way to greet a new colleague, is it? Shocking her? I hope we’ll get on better in the future.’

  She took his hand warily. No spark this time, but something, nonetheless. His palm was warm and smooth. His hand-shake was firm and his eyes had been drawn back to her face as if he was using this act of greeting to get a line on her character. He unsettled her from top to toe—and already this had gone on too long. She let go.

  He seemed equally glad to break contact. ‘So,’ he said briskly. ‘Welcome to the practice, Zoe.’ She must have looked surprised at his use of her first name because he gave a slight smile and said, ‘I can tell you’re from a big hospital. We don’t stand on ceremony here. How has your day been so far?’

  She had to say something. Lord knew what he would think of her if she were silent much longer. ‘Fine,’ she managed. ‘Bewildering. Different. But interesting. I’m looking forward to working here. Everyone seems very friendly.’

  ‘We try to be. Within a professional framework, obviously.’

  Was that a warning? Jo had indicated that he didn’t encourage relationships. Well, he would have no problems with her not being professional. She inclined her head stiffly.

  There was an awkward silence. Dr Maitland appeared to think all the social requirements had been fulfilled. ‘Would you like to see the rest of the suite?’ he asked, clearly casting around for something to say. ‘Not that you’ll need it. The maternity unit you’ll be using is at Sheffield.’

  ‘Thank you. I’d like that.’

  Zoe had spent her entire working life in large city hospitals. She believed implicitly in the centralisation of expertise. But, walking through the small scrub room and then into the cut-down version of a theatre, she felt a tugging nostalgia for the days when the cottage hospital at Buckley would have looked after its locals from the cradle to the grave. She turned to ask politely whether there were a lot of day-surgery cases. The words died on her tongue. Connor Maitland had subtly altered. In this theatre he wore his shapeless scrubs like a badge of office. A sharp shiver went through Zoe. Also a stab of interest. She knew the phenomenon well. The man had presence and this was his natural element! What on earth was he doing in a provincial medical centre?

  She was too occupied with memorising doors and staircases on the way back to Jo’s office to make conversation. When Connor nodded at the nameplate and made to leave she was taken by surprise. ‘Thank you,’ she said, scrambling for words. ‘Oh, and thank you for renting us the house. It’s lovely.’

  ‘It was your friend’s idea. Thank her.’ And he was gone, heading down the hallway.

  Zoe stared after him. What did that mean? The words hadn’t been unfriendly as such, just indifferent. You’d think he’d want to say something about the lease and the house. Nor had he acknowledged the spark when they’d shaken hands. Not the real, live flash that had glowed brightly for an instant and then disappeared, but the spark of a totally different kind that had flashed between them. She was sure she hadn’t imagined Connor’s telltale widening of the eyes. He was obviously a better actor than her and had his own reasons for holding back. It was odd, but it suited her fine. She didn’t want complications. She’d follow his example, but not to the point of rudeness like him.

  ‘Okay, give,’ she said to Jo as soon as her friend was free. ‘Tell me about your Dr Maitland.’

  ‘Hmm?’ said Jo unconvincingly.

  ‘Why, for example, does he walk around your Theatre like a lion? And why does a man that sinfully attractive live on his own?’

  ‘He’s not married,’ Jo said after a pause. ‘Never has been, as far as I know. No girlfriend either, not since he’s been with us. He’s…been ill. He socialises when he has to, but he prefers to keep himself to himself.’

  Zoe didn’t miss Jo’s dissatisfied tone. ‘It’s not a crime,’ she said with a chuckle. But she recalled those lines of etched pain and grieved for him. He’s…been ill. That must have been some trauma.

  Ah, well, Jo would tell her when she was good and ready. In the meantime, Zoe would respect Connor’s privacy. Quite apart from anything else, it would prevent her from making a fool of herself if any more ‘sparks’ occurred between them. She’d been so shaken. She hadn’t felt a sensation like it for years. There had been that sudden wish to know him, the physical attraction that made her mouth dry and her body feel warm. She would have to guard very carefully against that. As she had already proved, she was the world’s worst judge of suitable partners for a relationship. Neil had wounded her so badly, wounded her and compromised Jamie’s safety—Zoe was never going to commit herself again. All she wanted was a quiet life with her son.

  To Zoe’s great relief, Jamie had enjoyed his first day at his new school. This morning’s nerves when he’d donned the Buckley Primary sweatshirt for the first time had vanished and he was smiling more than he had for a while.

  ‘I’ve done a picture for you, Mummy,’ he said, waving a rolled-up piece of paper as she crossed the playground.

  Zoe unrolled it straight away. ‘Oh, sweetheart!’ Happy tears prickled in her eyes when she saw that his usual square block of flats had been replaced by an unpractised house-shape.

  ‘It’s our new house,’ Jamie said importantly, ‘and that’s me and that’s the path where I ride my bike, and that’s you and…and that’s Daddy in Heaven, looking down on us.’

  Zoe looked at the stick figure at the top of the piece of paper and bit her lip. She was so thankful that Jamie had never understood what his father really was. ‘It’s very good,’ she managed to say. ‘We’ll stick it on the fridge with your magnets when we get home.’

  It was a warm evening. Zoe changed out of her uniform with relief, putting on shorts and a thin top. Her head ached from trying to absorb all the information in her patients’ records ready for her first clinic tomorrow. She undid her hair from its neat pleat and shook it down round her shoulders. That was better—loose and free.

  Then she sat outside and had a long glass of lemonade. In London they’d had a balcony, five floors above the traffic. It was better than nothing, but this was the real thing. A patio with a wooden table, two wicker chairs and a bench. And it caught the evening sun! Marvellous. She thought she might spend quite a lot of time out here—once all her boxes were unpacked, that was.

  Jamie was riding up and down the path, making motorbike noises. Zoe winced at the all too accurate shriek-of-brakes sound he made at the end of the path. ‘What do you want for tea?’ she called.

  ‘Scones,’ came the instant reply.

  Zoe smiled. He really was happy, then. Scones were Jamie’s all-time favourite. He liked to help mix the dough and press the lumps into their special baking tray with funny faces built into the patty tins.

  Then she had a tiny revelation. He wouldn’t have to make the dough with her here. He could stay outside on his bike. The gate to the lane was firmly shut, and she could keep an eye on him through the kitchen window. This really was a wonderful place.

  Zoe had a small tussle with the unfamiliar cooker, but the scones were soon done, currents fixed in as eyes. She’d just split and buttered the first one when she heard wails. Jamie! Her heart pounded in sudden uncontrollable fear—what had happened? She rushed outside with the scone still in her hand and there was her crying son…in the arms of Connor Maitland!

  ‘Mummy,’ wailed Jamie, even louder than before. Zoe reached out and grabbed him, hugging him to her in relief. She rocked him backwards and forwards, murmuring words of comfort. The muffled sobs quietened.

  ‘A minor accident,’ said Connor. He looked awkward and ill at ease. ‘I was just passing and he fell off the gate. I think he was curious about my garden and climbed up to peer across—and was startled when I appeared round the corner. The bar gave way. I’ve had a quick look at him; there doesn’t seem to be any serious damage. A bit of a shock and a grazed knee.’

  ‘Thank you! I was looking out of the window all the time, but�
�’

  ‘Children can get into trouble at a minute’s notice. It’s part of the growing up process.’ He smiled at Jamie. ‘That looks a nice scone. Is it still warm?’

  Zoe looked down. In her fright over Jamie, she hadn’t even registered that he’d jammed the scone in his mouth. She smiled shakily. That was why he’d gone quiet. You couldn’t cry if you were eating.

  Jamie considered Connor solemnly over the top of it. ‘Mummy made it.’ He considered a moment longer. ‘Would you like a bite? It had a face on the bottom but I’ve eated most of it.’

  ‘Jamie! It’s not polite to…’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ To Zoe’s surprise, Connor’s answer came before she’d finished talking. Jamie stretched out his hand—not letting go of the scone—and Connor took a small bite. ‘Very nice indeed,’ he said.

  Zoe was recovering. ‘Would you like one of your own? I’ve got a whole plateful.’

  He hesitated, seemed to answer out of politeness. ‘Yes, please. Do they all have faces?’

  Jamie nodded. ‘Funny faces.’

  Zoe turned to get the scones, then realised Connor was following. There was a brief moment when he seemed too big for the kitchen. With her arms full of Jamie, she nodded helplessly at the plate.

  ‘Thank you.’ He took a scone. ‘I have my own now,’ he said to Jamie. ‘Would you like your bite back?’

  Jamie thought a moment. ‘That’s all right,’ he said generously. ‘You have it all.’ He wriggled to get down.

  Zoe retreated to the sink, ostensibly to wash her hands. Jamie was no trouble now. But she had to deal with Connor. In her kitchen. And he was still doing fluttery things to her insides. He looked cool but smart, dressed in lightweight khaki trousers and a pristine white shirt. She guessed he’d be going back to run a surgery later. Embarrassment flooded her as she glanced down at her own clothes—or lack of them. Her shorts were…well, short. Her white T-shirt top was old, made of thin cotton; it did little to hide her generous figure. And across the bust was written the message, Ask me: I might. She had won it in a hospital raffle ages ago. What kind of a colleague, what kind of a neighbour would he think she was? She fought the urge to pull an apron off the door hook—it would only serve to emphasize what she was trying to conceal. He might not even have noticed.