“Good workout tonight.” Gavin pulled off his sweatbands and tossed them into his bag. Dan noticed the expression of satisfaction on his face. He’d seen it all evening.
“You’re looking pleased with yourself.”
“Am I?” Gavin seemed momentarily taken aback. “What makes you say that?”
“I dunno.” Dan eyed him curiously. “But you’ve got that look that says I know something that you don’t.”
For a few moments Gavin was thoughtful. Then he grinned. “Okay, Danny boy. You’ve got me sussed.” He tapped his nose conspiratorially. “I popped the question the other day.”
Dan’s face furrowed into a frown. “You did what?”
“I popped the question. I asked Rosie if she’d like to go away with me for Christmas.”
Dan looked slightly confused. “That was the question?”
“Yeah.” Gavin was still grinning. “I’m still waiting for her to get back to me on it.”
Dan shook his head with a wry smile. “You had me going there, mate. Thought you’d gone and got yourself hitched.”
“What kinda guy do you take me for?” Gavin laughed. “No – it’s just that Rosie hasn’t got much in the way of family by the sounds of things. Thought I might sweep her off her feet. Give her a Christmas to remember.”
“You don’t waste time, Gav, I’ll give you that.”
Gavin smiled quizzically. “How d’you mean?”
“Y’know, getting all cosy with Rosie. You’ve only known her – what is it – a month? Do I take it you’re over Kate then?”
Gavin lowered his eyes. Dan immediately felt bad. “Sorry, mate. That came out all wrong …”
“It’s okay.” Gavin wasn’t smiling any more. He took a slow, deliberate swig of water and sighed heavily. “You know, Dan, you don’t get over a girl like Kate in a hurry. I’m still finding it hard to believe we’re through.” He ran his hand slowly across the surface of the table. “I found out she was back in town last week so I asked if we could meet up for old times’ sake. Saw her twice. I guess I’m still hoping there might be a chance.”
“So what’s with Rosie?” Dan spoke quietly. “How serious is that?”
Gavin’s face lightened. “She’s a great girl. Not the type I’d normally go for – but quite a looker. And a bit fiery. I like that in a woman.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t sit around waiting to see if Kate will change her mind, can I? I have to get on with life. And Rosie suits me fine at the moment.”
Dan exhaled slowly. “Gav … don’t hurt her, will you?”
“Hurt her? I don’t follow.”
“She’s Mel’s friend, remember.” Dan’s face was serious. “And you seem to be moving in pretty fast to say you’re still carrying something for Kate. I’d hate to see Rosie get hurt.”
Gavin shook his head. “You don’t have to worry about Rosie, mate. She’s a tough nut that one. That’s one girl that can give as good as she gets.” He took another swig of water and grinned. “It’s me you should be worrying about, if anybody.”
____________
It had been a long day for Dr Michael Romily. He felt tense as he stretched out on the soft leather sofa of his spacious walk-through lounge. Reaching for the remote, he flicked on a CD. A track from Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ immediately filled the room with measured baroque poise. He loosened his tie and rubbed his neck slowly as the music melted over him. Ah, if only all of life could be so impeccably scored.
Sarah came into the room and sat on the arm of the settee. Michael’s wife of twenty-seven years, she understood his silences just as well as his conversation.
“Tiring day, darling?” She stroked his hair gently. Michael looked up at her and reached for her hand. Words weren’t necessary right now. They could talk later, when he’d relaxed a bit.
“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.” Sarah stood to her feet. He kissed her hand and she swept with quiet elegance into the kitchen. Michael closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in the music. How appropriate; the track playing was ‘Winter’. Michael recalled the squally, wet evening that had met him as he’d stepped out into the hospital car park just over an hour ago. November already. Time seemed to have flown this year, and what a year it had been …
He remonstrated with himself. He mustn’t start thinking about work. He must relax and let his mind clear. Focusing on the music, he began to hum along. Vivaldi was good for the sanity, Michael reasoned; there was something vital and enduring about his work. His eyes were drawn to the new Heather Emmerson painting hanging on the far wall by the bookcase. They’d spotted it at an exhibition for up and coming young artists at the beginning of October. Michael had loved it on sight. A delicate seashore watercolour, it was simple, yet powerfully evocative. A painting he could lose himself in. At the time, Sarah had not seemed to share his enthusiasm. A couple of weeks later, the reason had emerged. Recognising the opportunity to surprise him with a perfect gift, she had kept her own delight in check and feigned indifference. A fortnight after the exhibition, on the occasion of their twenty-seventh wedding anniversary, Sarah had presented him with a beautiful hand decorated cake – and the painting. Michael smiled as he remembered. Sarah understood him so well. She shared his love of music, she understood his love of art. In fact, during the course of their years together, they had grown to appreciate much of life as an art form – sometimes beautiful and gracious, sometimes garish and shocking. But art nevertheless; a constantly evolving, widening, mutating creative entity that swept every soul alive along with it. Michael hadn’t worked out the philosophical premise behind it, but he managed to see art in most things these days. Even in his own job. Maybe it kept him from going crazy. Maybe Leonardo da Vinci had had the same approach, cutting up cadavers for the sheer thrill of seeing how everything was put together. Michael looked across at the Emmerson painting again, and then down at his own strong, slender hands. Art was sometimes little more than a gentle means of escape. But in some cases, one man’s art might be another man’s salvation.
Chapter 8
It was a couple of days later and Rosie had invited Ciaran round for supper. He’d been to visit Beth and now, at quarter to nine, they were tucking into lasagne and focaccia.
“This is good, Ros.” He was eating as though he hadn’t seen food for a week. “We’ll get ya married off yet. Anyone who makes a mean lasagne like this deserves to be wed, I reckon.”
“Oh, ha ha.” Rosie gave him a withering look, but the grin he tried to return somehow made her feel sad. There was a strange vulnerability about him these days. He seemed incomplete without Beth. She hit him playfully. “Be quiet or I’ll tell you what I put in it.”
Ciaran tore off a piece of bread. It was a slow, preoccupied gesture, and the sudden pensive look that passed across his face didn’t go unnoticed by Rosie. “Well, Ros – we should get somewhere tomorrow. Dr Stafford wants to see Beth about the test results.” He looked down at the table and started to doodle with the end of his fork. “It’s a week since they put that camera thing down. I can’t understand why everything takes so long.”
“Suppose they have to be absolutely sure they know what they’re dealing with,” Rosie offered. “She certainly looks a lot better than she did a fortnight ago. They must have been doing something right. Are we still assuming it’s an ulcer?”
Ciaran shrugged. “Well, that’s what I’m thinking. Seems to match up as far as I can see – that or some kind of inflammation. Beth hasn’t talked about it much this last couple o’ days. She’s probably fed up of waiting and guesswork. Anyway, tomorrow we’ll know where we are and they should be able to start her on some proper treatment. I’m going in about two thirty. She wanted me to be there.”
Rosie dug out a comedy DVD and they watched it for an hour or so. Ciaran seemed vaguely entertained but Rosie could tell his mind was elsewhere. At last, he looked at his watch and stood up. “I’d best be going, Ros, or neither of us’ll get up in the morning. Thanks for suppe
r.”
Rosie gave him a brief hug. “You’re welcome. By the way, I won’t be able to get in to see Beth tomorrow. We’ve got a parents’ open evening and I’m working straight through. Give me a ring when you get home – let me know how things went.”
“Yeah, I will.” Ciaran gave her a kiss on the cheek and, with a wave, disappeared into the night.
____________
Alec Stafford looked at his watch. Two twenty-seven. They’d be here at any time. He went over to the window and closed it against the draught. Seconds later, there was a knock on his door.
“Beth Maconochie to see you, Doctor.”
Alec smiled and welcomed Beth and Ciaran into his office. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured warmly and watched as the young couple sat down. The husband looked expectant, the young woman, quietly prepared. Inwardly Alec sighed. Time for his professional head.
“Well, Beth – we have the results back from your tests so I’m going to talk you through them.” He cleared his throat and straightened the pile of papers on his desk. He knew he was stalling. Some parts of the job never grew any easier.
“Right. Well, the barium meal that you were given last Monday indicated some blockage in the upper gastro-intestinal tract. Obviously this made it necessary to investigate further, which is why we did the gastroscopy on the Wednesday.”
He swallowed hard. This was always the bit he hated.
“When you were first admitted and I palpated your abdomen, Beth, I suspected a mass. The endoscopic examination confirmed a growth in the stomach. As you know, we took a tissue sample and … .” He paused. “I’m sorry to say the news is not as we’d hoped, Beth. I’m afraid the biopsy shows that you have cancer.”
There was a slight gasp, and then, silence. For several moments no one made a sound, then Ciaran’s voice came out in a low, stuttering whisper. “No. No, it can’t be –”
He glanced across at Beth as though somehow, one word from her would alter everything. Beth was staring straight ahead, her features impassive, her expression inscrutable. Ciaran turned to Dr Stafford. “Couldn’t there be some mistake? I mean, she’s only just been taken ill.”
Alec Stafford shook his head. “Very often with stomach cancer there are no visible symptoms until the disease has been present for some time.” He spoke gently, a wash of sympathy flowing over him for the young man who sat now with a look of pained incredulity on his face. He turned to Beth. Her face was giving nothing away as she stared towards the window. Alec knew he needed to take this carefully. “I’m sorry, Beth. It’s always a shock.” He paused. Beth’s blue eyes seemed to him like the ocean before a storm. Still, unknown deeps, hiding a maelstrom of thoughts and questions he could only guess at. He’d seen this before. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, both hands supporting his chin. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me? Anything at all? Take your time.”
For a while, there was not even a flicker of response. At last, Beth lowered her gaze to meet his. “Am I going to die, Dr Stafford?”
It was a clinical question. Simple and straight and devoid of emotion. Out of the corner of his eye, Alec saw the young husband drop his head. He straightened in his chair.
“I don’t want you to look at cancer as a death sentence, Beth. Many, many people recover and go on to lead full lives – many say fuller for having gone through the experience. Hard to believe, I know, when you’ve just received news like this. But it’s worth holding on to.” He paused for a moment. The histology report had not been encouraging. They were dealing with a high-grade and the thing hadn’t even been staged yet. It was impossible to give an accurate prognosis, but Alec had been in this business long enough to know they needed to get things moving. “The biopsy suggests that the tumour is quite aggressive, Beth. We really need to find out if it has spread from the primary site before we can offer you treatment options. I’m referring you on to our Senior Oncologist, Michael Romily. I’ve spoken to him already and he’s happy to meet with you tomorrow if you would like to do that.”
Beth glanced at Ciaran. He gave a slight, anxious nod as a man grasping for a lifeline. She smiled weakly. “Yes. Yes, I would like that.”
Alec was pleased. “I sense you’re a strong lady, Beth. And that’s good. That’s half of it. We must try to look at this as a skirmish along the way – by no means the end of the story.”
Attempting to impart hope to someone who’d just received such a body blow was not the easiest thing in the world, thought Alec as he measured his voice and carefully chose his words. But it was part of the job and a part he took very seriously. He looked at her warmly. “Michael really is an expert in this area of medicine. One of the best in the country. If I were in your position, I’d ask for him personally.”
But you’re not me, are you? Beth tried to look grateful. You’re you and I’m me. And apparently, I’m the one with cancer.
In the time that followed, Ciaran put forward several questions and Alec did his best to answer them. Beth said little. Only the preoccupied expression in her eyes gave any indication as to what she might be thinking. When eventually the interview came to an end, Alec Stafford shook hands with the young couple. It was time to pass the patient on and he was almost sorry. They thanked him for all his care over the past fortnight, and he wished them all the best for the future. Ciaran paused in the doorway. “You must find your job real hard at times.”
Alec frowned slightly. “Yes. Yes, it can be.”
Ciaran hesitated for a moment. “You just gave me the worst news of my life. But I doubt it could have been done better … thank you.” His voice trailed off and with a brief smile, he took the handles of Beth’s wheelchair and set off down the corridor. Alec Stafford shook his head sadly as he closed the door of his office. Sometimes his job felt like the hardest in the world.
____________
There was a knock at the front door. It was a rapid, agitated knock which made Rosie jump. “Okay, okay, I’m coming,” she muttered under her breath as she went to answer it. Mel had probably forgotten her key. It was Ciaran.
“Hey – come in, Kitch. I wasn’t expecting you to call. I thought you were going to ring later.”
He followed her into the kitchen.
“Have you eaten?” Rosie made them both coffee and started to rummage in one of the cupboards.
Ciaran shook his head. “I’m okay, Ros. I’m not bothered about anything.” He ran his hand distractedly through his hair. “Could we talk in your room?”
Something in his tone unnerved Rosie. “Sure. Course we can.”
They went into her room and she closed the door. Ciaran flung himself into the armchair and sat, head thrown back, staring upwards at the ceiling. Rosie said nothing. Suddenly she felt scared. Outside in the night, the muffled sound of an emergency siren echoed in a distant street. At last, Ciaran leaned forward and picked up his coffee.
“It’s cancer,” he said simply.
Rosie bit her lip. A tingle of horror crawled through her being as the word injected itself clinically into her mind. Images of Beth began to loom in her head. A chaotic jumble like a speededup video. Ward 7a – Mama’s staffroom – Nelson’s Column – the concert …
A splash of scalding coffee stung her fingers, bringing her back to reality. She put the mug on the table and tried to get her thoughts together. “Where? Where is it? I mean, how bad?” It was all coming out wrong. But then, how could anything sound right?
“Stomach.” Ciaran’s voice was flat. “They dunno if it’s spread anywhere else yet. She has to see the specialist tomorrow. More tests by the sounds of it. They’ll go from there.”
“How’s she taken it?” Rosie tried to imagine Beth. Bright, fun-loving Beth. Irrepressible, inquisitive Beth. If anyone could beat this thing, it was her.
Ciaran shuffled in his seat. “Y’know, it’s funny, Ros.” He paused, a frown shadowing his face. “She didn’t seem exactly surprised. It was like she already knew. She was real quiet for the first couple of ho
urs, like she was trying to get her head round it. But she didn’t get upset or anything. It unnerved me a bit. I kept expecting her to cry or –” He swallowed hard. “But there was nothing like that. By the time I left she was talking positive. Said it was like her setting out to master the ‘Rach 3’ on piano. Not something she’d ever thought of trying before, but she’d sure give it her best shot. I think she was doing it for me as much as anything. She must have known how sick I felt.”
They fell into silence again. It was a heavy, hopeless silence that Rosie felt desperate to break, but wasn’t sure how to. In the end it was Ciaran who spoke. “I feel responsible. I knew something wasn’t right, Ros. We had a do about it a few weeks ago, but she threw me off scent. Said she’d been working too hard.” He shook his head and swore. “If only I’d made her get checked out then.” He sat back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling again.
“You can’t blame yourself, Kitch. If it’s any consolation, I never noticed anything. I thought she might be a bit run down, but nothing like this ever entered my head. How were any of us to know any different?” Rosie tried to sound sincere, but inwardly she was mad at herself for not having spotted any of the signs.
Ciaran sighed heavily. “You can tell now though, can’t you? She looks pitiful, poor little thing.” He swore again. There was heartbroken anger in his voice and Rosie felt her own throat tightening. Outside, the familiar drone of night-time traffic hummed through the airwaves like some meditation soundtrack. Rosie stared at the window with its drawn back curtains. How dare the world just carry on as though nothing had happened? It was almost obscene.
“D’you know what gets to me most, Ros?” Ciaran looked at her bitterly. “Leaving her. That’s what really gets to me. Leaving her there on her own. No one to talk to if she gets upset in the night. If it hits her – if it suddenly hits her – no one to comfort her. It cuts me up.” His voice trailed away and he buried his face in his hands.
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