He nodded. ‘Crazy, isn’t it? You’d think it would have been obvious to anyone that I don’t have any money.’
It should have been. Colin Seller’s clothes might be clean and neat but they were obviously old and his shoes had holes in them.
‘Your Aids,’ she continued as Robert began removing the dirt from the cuts in Colin Seller’s legs. ‘What sort of medication are you taking to keep it under control?’
The man shrugged. ‘No point in controlling it. It’s going to kill me eventually so why postpone the inevitable?’
‘But if you don’t take any medication—’
‘The tumours will affect my gastrointestinal and respiratory tracts, causing severe internal bleeding, and lymphoma of the brain. And if I’m real lucky I might get toxoplasmosis which can lead to lung and heart damage and severe encephalitis.’ Colin Seller smiled as Hannah stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘I’ve got Aids, Doctor. That doesn’t mean I’m brainless. At least not yet.’
‘Then why don’t you take the drugs we can give you?’ she protested. ‘OK, so they may not be able to cure you, but at least we might be able to keep you alive until we can find a cure.’
‘Doctor, I’ve lost my lover to Aids, my family have disowned me, and I’ve no job, no home, no nothing. Sometimes…sometimes living just gets too painful, and you’d prefer not do it any more.’
She put down the piece of gauze she’d been using and clasped the young man’s hand in her own. ‘I’m sorry. I know that’s a really dumb and inadequate thing to say, but I’m truly, truly sorry.’
Colin Seller clearly didn’t think it was dumb, and neither did Robert as he stared across at her.
She meant it, he realised. She wasn’t just mouthing the stock set of comforting phrases they all learnt at med school. Hannah truly meant it.
Laura hadn’t possessed one tenth of the compassion of this girl. She might have been the most brilliant junior doctor he’d ever met, but personal success had meant everything to her, and the emotional needs of her patients had come a very poor second.
And not just her patients’ emotional needs, he remembered with a twist of pain. The night she’d died he’d accused her of wanting the acclaim and fame that medicine could bring more than she wanted him, and she’d told him that even if he was content to work for the rest of his life in a run-down dump like St Stephen’s, she wasn’t. And it had been then that he’d told her he wanted a divorce. Then that he’d known their marriage was over, and that it should never have occurred in the first place.
‘I think it’s time you went home, Hannah,’ he said with an effort, hearing the babble of voices outside that heralded the arrival of the night staff. ‘It will only take me a couple of minutes to finish up in here.’
‘But—’
‘Home, Hannah,’ he insisted, leading her purposefully towards the cubicle curtains. ‘It’s late, and you’ve done enough.’
‘But—’
‘You do what the man says, Doctor.’ Colin Seller grinned, his cruelly disfigured face lighting up with amusement. ‘Seems to me like you need someone to take care of you.’
It seemed that way to Robert, too, but he couldn’t be that man, and he knew he couldn’t.
‘I just wish there was something more we could do for him,’ Hannah sighed as Robert propelled her through the curtains.
‘I think you already have,’ he murmured.
‘I know it’s his choice not to take any medication,’ she continued as though Robert hadn’t spoken, ‘but if there was only something else we could do. Something that would make him a little more comfortable.’
‘Perhaps there is. Now, off you go,’ he concluded, giving her a gentle nudge. ‘And no more taking long walks on your own, remember?’
‘Aye-aye, sir,’ she replied, standing smartly to attention, and chuckled as she heard the clear sound of his laughter following her out of the treatment room.
It had been an odd day, she decided as she collected her coat and bag from the staffroom. That young girl earlier in the afternoon who could so easily have been paralysed, the honeymoon couple…
Her lips curved as she walked out through the waiting room. The poor girl had been so mortified, and her husband had been terrific. It must be wonderful to have someone care that much for you. To have someone love you so much that only your welfare mattered.
Colin Seller didn’t have anyone who cared for him, she thought sadly as she walked out of the hospital, shivering slightly at the contrast in temperatures. She so wished they could have done something for him, something to help him, but she couldn’t think what.
You’re a doctor, Hannah, not a social worker, she told herself firmly as she turned up her coat collar against the falling sleet. You can only do what you can do. But as she paused at the kerb she suddenly noticed that Robert was crossing the street ahead of her, and a slight frown creased her forehead.
He was walking oddly, skirting the icy puddles, carefully avoiding the potholes in the road, and as she continued to watch him she suddenly saw why. He wasn’t wearing any shoes.
He’d given them to Colin Seller. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that he’d given them to the young man, and a hard lump formed in her throat as she stared after him, watching his painful progress, his head bent low against the biting wind. There had been something they could do for Colin Seller, and Robert had done it. Not given him a long lecture on the importance of taking his drugs, or a reprimand for failing to do so, but given him something which showed that somebody cared about his welfare.
And it was in that split second that she suddenly realised something else. Something she should have known before—perhaps had known before—and hadn’t wanted to admit.
She’d fallen in love with Robert Cunningham. Somehow, some way, she’d managed to fall in love with this difficult, prickly, oh, so nice man, but the trouble was, she didn’t know what she was going to do about it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘MR MAITLAND was brought in by his wife about ten minutes ago,’ Robert explained as Hannah accompanied him down the treatment room. ‘He has a high fever, stiff neck and also seems to be slightly confused and disorientated. His wife is terrified he has meningitis.’
Hannah nodded. Even the word was enough to strike terror into most people’s hearts, but it didn’t need to. If the condition was diagnosed early, the prognosis for a full recovery was usually excellent.
‘Nobody is really certain what causes meningitis, are they?’ she observed. ‘All we know for certain is that an infection must have entered the cerebrospinal fluid which surrounds and protects the brain and spinal cord.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’re going to do a spinal tap to see if Mr Maitland’s cerebrospinal fluid is infected?’
Robert smiled as he led the way into cubicle 5. ‘No, I’m not. You are.’
She stumbled in dismay as she followed him. She’d thought he was going to show her how the procedure was done, not that she was going to do it herself. She was sure that’s what he’d said. ‘Robert, I really don’t think—’
‘Any change in Mr Maitland’s condition, Flo?’ he asked, completely ignoring Hannah’s panic-stricken appeal.
‘No deterioration that I can see,’ the staff nurse replied.
‘Good, good.’ He nodded. ‘OK, Hannah, we’ve anaesthetised the skin overlying the lumbar vertebrae so what I want you to do first is to press your thumb into the middle of Mr Maitland’s back, then gradually move your thumb down the bony prominences.’
Robert quite clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer—not when he was already holding the box of latex gloves out to her—and reluctantly she took a pair, and even more reluctantly pulled them on.
‘What am I looking for when I’m moving my thumb down Mr Maitland’s back?’ she asked.
‘The undulations of the spinal column as you get nearer to his buttocks.’
‘The undulations?’ Hannah repeated.
‘E
ach one is a single vertebra, and we’re looking for the third and fourth, which are just above the base of the spine. Look, let me help you,’ he continued, moving behind her and placing his hand over hers as she gazed uncertainly up at him. ‘The secret is not to be too tentative. You can’t possibly hurt bone simply by pressing it.’
She knew that, but she also knew it would have been considerably easier for her to concentrate if it hadn’t been Robert showing her the technique. If it hadn’t been his hand guiding hers, and his subtle aftershave she could smell, and his chest resting against her back.
How had she fallen in love with this man? Why had she fallen in love with him? She didn’t know him—not really—but she knew with absolute certainty that it wasn’t simply a physical attraction she felt for him any more. She cared about him. She worried about him. And she wanted to see him smiling and happy, instead of sad and strained all the time.
‘I—I can feel the vertebrae,’ she stammered, deliberately not looking up at him. ‘What do I do now?’
A hollow, very fine needle appeared before her eyes.
‘Insert this between the third and fourth vertebrae to pierce the meninges that covers the spinal cord, and extract some fluid for analysis.’
This time she did look up at him, but in total panic. What if she put the needle in the wrong place? What if she paralysed Mr Maitland?
‘You can’t do any damage, Hannah,’ Robert continued gently, correctly interpreting her expression. ‘The spinal cord only goes as far as the lower portion of the middle of the back, and as you’ll be inserting the needle into an area well below that, you can’t possibly do Mr Maitland any harm.’
That was easy for him to say, she thought as she gingerly inserted the needle. He’d probably done hundreds—OK, maybe nearer dozens—of spinal taps. This was her first.
‘I’ve got it!’ she said in amazement as the cerebrospinal fluid shot up into the needle without any effort at all. ‘I’ve actually done it!’
‘I said it was easy, didn’t I?’ he replied, but as she turned and beamed up at him, his heart twisted inside him.
It was his own fault, of course. Offering to help her, using that as a feeble excuse to stand close to her, to hold her lightly, if only for a few seconds. It was the kind of sick ploy someone like Jerry Clark would have used, and if he now felt like hell it was his own just deserts.
Not if you’re falling in love with her, his mind whispered, and unconsciously he shook his head.
He wasn’t falling in love with her. OK, so he liked her. OK, so he seemed to spend an inordinate amount of his time thinking about her, but that was just physical attraction. Love was for teenagers. Love was just desire and sex wrapped up in a romantic name. He’d been down that road once, and he didn’t want to go down it again—ever.
‘So, what do we do now?’ Hannah asked.
God alone knows, Robert thought, only to realise from her expectant expression that she was referring to something entirely different.
‘Flo will send the sample off to the lab,’ he said quickly. ‘They’ll check it out for bacteria and white blood cells, then get back to us.’
‘I presume if it is meningitis, it’s going to be meningococcal?’ Hannah remarked as she followed him out of the cubicle. ‘At thirty-eight, Mr Maitland’s not likely to have contracted pneumococcal meningitis, although I understand—’
She didn’t get the chance to say what she understood because the doors of the treatment room suddenly slammed open and a young man appeared, wide-eyed, sweating and dishevelled.
‘Can somebody help me, please?’ he yelled. ‘My wife—she’s out in the van, and she’s in labour!’
Hannah was halfway through the waiting room, clutching the obs kit, before she realised Robert was with her.
‘I thought maybe two heads might be better than one,’ he said with a grin. ‘I mean, childbirth isn’t exactly our speciality, is it?’
It wasn’t, and when Hannah clambered into the back of the van and saw the young man’s wife, her legs wide apart and the top of a little dark head protruding from her vagina, she was more than relieved to have Robert with her.
‘Just as well I told Jane to page the labour ward,’ Robert observed, pulling off his sweater and rolling up his sleeves. ‘It looks as though mum’s cut it a bit fine.’
A bit fine was right. With a sharp cry the woman suddenly bore down heavily, and Robert only just got his hands up in time to catch the tiny scrap of humanity as it shot out of its mother.
‘My baby?’ the woman gasped, trying to lever herself upright. ‘Is my baby all right?’
‘She’s fine,’ Robert replied, wrapping the baby in his sweater after Hannah had clamped and cut the cord. ‘You have a beautiful baby daughter.’
And she was beautiful, Hannah thought, staring down into a pair of enormous blue eyes. Wet and bloody, but bright-eyed and alert, and quite, quite beautiful.
‘I think you’ve got a fan there,’ she commented, seeing the baby snuggle into Robert’s chest as members of the labour ward arrived and whisked the mother away to the delivery room to deliver the placenta.
He shook his head wryly. ‘I’m afraid she’s labouring under a grave misapprehension. My sole contribution to her arrival in the world was to catch her as she shot past.’
‘Yes, but, boy, what a catch.’ Hannah laughed, then glanced around with a slight frown. ‘What happened to the father?’
‘He keeled over the moment you dashed out of the treatment room. Kelly’s probably reviving him with tea and sympathy even as we speak.’
She chuckled. ‘Poor man. I bet he’ll never forget his daughter’s arrival.’ She tickled the little girl under her chin. ‘She is lovely, isn’t she?’
‘Yes. Yes, she is.’
Robert’s voice was soft, husky, but when she glanced up at him he wasn’t looking at the baby at all, but at her.
Did he mean he found her attractive, desirable? Did he mean what she hoped—oh, how she hoped—he meant? Her breath seemed to be wedged somewhere in the centre of her chest but she managed an uncertain smile. ‘They say…People say…all babies are beautiful.’
‘Do they?’ he murmured, his eyes catching and holding hers. ‘Then I guess…if everyone says that…’
She couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. Something in his eyes—something that sent a quiver of sensation running through her body—held her rooted to the spot, and when he cleared his throat huskily, she held her breath expectantly.
‘Hannah—’
‘Dr Cunningham, this is most unprofessional!’ Sister Strachan from the special care baby unit declared, appearing in front of them without warning. ‘It’s well below freezing out here and this…’ She fingered Robert’s sweater with clear distaste. ‘This is hardly adequate clothing for a newborn.’
‘You’re perfectly right,’ he replied as she held out her arms and reluctantly he handed the baby to her. ‘I’m sorry, Sister.’
‘Name?’
He gazed at her in confusion. ‘Dr Robert Cunningham. Special registrar, A and E—’
‘The baby’s name, Doctor,’ Sister Strachan interrupted in exasperation. ‘All kinds of complications can arise in SCBU if we don’t know this little mite’s surname.’
Robert looked even more shamefaced. ‘I don’t think we actually got the baby’s surname, did we, Dr Blake?’
Sister Strachan’s eyes rolled heavenwards when Hannah shook her head, and with a look that spoke volumes she clutched the baby to her ample bosom and strode away, muttering darkly.
‘Bang goes my credibility in SCBU for the foreseeable future,’ Robert sighed as he led the way back into A and E.
‘Maybe she might forgive us if we send up little Miss No Name’s father once he’s recovered from the shock?’ Hannah suggested.
He shook his head and laughed. ‘Not a hope, I’m afraid. We’re dead ducks as far as Sister Strachan is concerned.’
Han
nah laughed, too, but as she followed him back into the treatment room her main emotion was frustration. Somehow she sensed that he’d been about to say something momentous just before Sister Strachan had interrupted him, and now the moment had been lost. And not just lost. She had the depressing feeling it would never come again.
‘Mr Maitland’s results are back from the lab,’ Jane said the minute she saw Robert, ‘and you’ll be pleased to know it’s negative on the meningitis. Looks like he’s simply got a very bad case of the flu, but do you want me to arrange for him to go up to the medical ward for observation?’
Robert nodded.
‘A successful birth, and a good result for Mr Maitland,’ Hannah declared. ‘Hey, maybe this is going to be one of our better days.’
‘Never, ever say that, Hannah,’ Jane protested in dismay. ‘The minute anyone says that in A and E, you can be sure the floodgates will open.’
And they did. Within half an hour the waiting room was packed, and Robert and Hannah were desperately attempting to extract information from a very drowsy and equally belligerent overdose patient.
‘Why don’t you just go away and leave me alone?’ the woman flared as Robert tried to find out what pills she’d taken. ‘I don’t want you to help me! I just want to die!’
‘Won’t you at least tell us when you took the pills?’ Hannah said coaxingly. ‘Was it an hour ago—two hours—longer?’
‘Sod off, why don’t you?’ the woman retorted. ‘Just sod off, and leave me alone!’
‘Alcohol as well as pills, from the smell of her breath,’ Robert observed. ‘Can’t whoever brought her in give us any information?’
Jane shook her head. ‘All her boyfriend knows is that they had a huge row last night and when he went round to their flat to collect his clothes he found her in the bathroom, clutching an empty pill bottle.’
‘Which he didn’t think to bring in with him.’ Robert sighed. ‘OK, Jane, get me a sample for a blood alcohol level, a toxic screen to identify what she’s taken and a CBC and ECG. If she’s taken any of the tricyclic antidepressants they can play havoc with the heart rhythm.’
A Wife for Dr. Cunningham Page 11