A Wife for Dr. Cunningham

by Maggie Kingsley

  ‘Then I think that’s all we can do,’ Hannah said, putting the last of the dressings in place and straightening up. ‘Like you said, the rest is really up to the burns unit.’

  And they’d have their work cut out with this one, she thought sadly as Harry Ryan was wheeled out of the treatment room. He’d sustained third-degree burns to his hands and arms and it was going to take years of painful skin grafts to repair the damage. And even then there would be no guarantee that he’d ever fully regain the use of his hands and arms.

  ‘Our burns unit is one of the best in London, Hannah,’ Robert murmured, clearly reading her mind.

  ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘It’s just…He’s so very little, Robert, and I keep thinking if he were mine…’

  ‘If he was yours, I’m sure you’d have taken much better care of him so he didn’t end up here in the first place,’ Robert declared firmly.

  She was tempted to tell him that hundreds of children with good and caring parents ended up in hospital every day. That she’d met some children in the short time she’d worked in A and E who seemed to have been born with a suicide mission in life, but she didn’t.

  She was too busy suddenly wondering what it would be like to have a child of her own. She’d never thought of herself as a mother, never even imagined herself as one, but now…To feel a child growing inside her, to watch its first tottering steps. And she didn’t want just anybody’s child, she realised. She wanted Robert Cunningham’s.

  ‘Maybe…maybe one day, Hannah?’ he said softly, glancing down at her with a knowing smile.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she replied, her own lips creasing in response. ‘I’d like that very much indeed.’

  ‘And I’m sure whatever it is you’d both like is really interesting, but we do have patients waiting,’ Mr Mackay observed tersely as he strode past them.

  Robert stared after the A and E consultant, open-mouthed, then grinned. ‘That is the first time in my life I’ve actually been accused of wasting time. What are you doing to me, Hannah Blake?’

  ‘Making you a little more human, I hope.’ She chuckled, but as he walked away she noticed Jane looking at her from across the treatment room, a puzzled, quizzical look on her face.

  It had been a look she’d seen before over the last three weeks. A look that made her wonder how much longer she and Robert would be able to keep their relationship a secret. Frankly, she was amazed they’d managed it this long. Sometimes she thought it must be obvious to everyone. And sometimes, when Robert smiled at her—that very special smile she knew he reserved solely for her—she was certain the whole world must know.

  ‘I take my hat off to you, Hannah.’

  ‘You do?’ she replied, whirling round guiltily to see Floella behind her. ‘Why—what have I done?’

  ‘Only single-handedly managed to turn our special registrar from the grouch of the millennium into a big, cuddly pussy cat.’ The staff nurse beamed. ‘I don’t know what you said to him a couple of weeks ago but he’s been a different man ever since. In fact, I actually heard him whistling when he came on duty tonight.’

  He whistled in the bath every morning, too. Well, he hadn’t this morning, but that could have had something to do with the fact that she’d joined him, and he’d had other things on his mind at the time.

  ‘You OK, Hannah?’ Floella continued with a slight frown. ‘You look a bit flushed. Liz in Admin was telling me there’s a flu bug going round the hospital—’

  ‘I’m not surprised, considering they keep the temperature in here on a level with Barbados while outside it’s freezing,’ Hannah declared quickly. ‘It’s enough to make anybody sick. And talking about sick, who’s next?’

  ‘Ben Ryder—three years old—sounds like asthma.’

  It wasn’t. In fact, by the time she’d finished examining the little boy she was completely stumped.

  ‘You said your son only started wheezing recently, Mrs Ryder?’ she queried as she put down her stethoscope.

  The small, dark-haired woman nodded. ‘He was as right as rain at teatime, Doctor, or I’d never have taken him to the fireworks display, but when we got home he started to sound like this.’

  ‘Has he ever shown any signs of bronchitis—asthma?’ she asked, clutching at straws.

  ‘No, never. In fact, he had his check-up at the clinic only last week, and they said he was as fit as a fiddle.’

  Hannah’s frown deepened. Ben Ryder’s temperature, pulse and blood pressure were normal. There were no signs of blueness about his lips or tongue, and he was alert, if a little tearful.

  In fact, if he hadn’t got this wheeze—a wheeze that seemed to be getting worse—she would have said there was nothing wrong with the child. Perhaps she should page Paediatrics, get their consultant to come down and have a look. Ben could have a lung or a heart problem that hadn’t been detected yet. Or maybe he was suffering from a severe allergic reaction to something, and his wheezing was the precursor to him going into full anaphylactic shock.

  And, then again, perhaps not. An idea suddenly flashed into her mind.

  ‘Jane, would you tilt Ben’s head for me?’

  Quickly the sister did as she asked.

  ‘Can you see anything? Mrs Ryder whispered as Hannah squinted up into the little boy’s nose.

  A donkey, Hannah thought with a smile, remembering Robert’s words. It was a donkey, not a zebra.

  ‘Your son’s got a stone up his nose, Mrs Ryder,’ she announced as she straightened up. ‘While you were watching the fireworks he must have got a bit bored, picked one up and stuck it up his nose.’

  ‘Why, the little…’ Mrs Ryder was torn between laughter, exasperation and tears. ‘Can you get it out?’

  ‘Jane, could you get me the smallest forceps you can find, please?’ Hannah asked.

  Within seconds the stone was out, and Mrs Ryder was carrying a thoroughly chastened Ben out of the treatment room.

  ‘Take a tip from me, Doctor,’ Mrs Ryder said wryly. ‘Don’t ever have children. Not only do they give you grey hairs, the only way a woman can survive is to grow eyes in the back of her head!’

  Hannah laughed, but her face became slightly pensive when the mother and son had gone. Grey hairs and eyes in the back of her head seemed a small price to pay to have a miniaturised version of Robert. A tiny, black-haired, grey-eyed bundle of mischief who would stick stones up his nose and get into all kinds of scrapes. Or perhaps even a daughter who would have Robert’s black hair and smile, and…

  For goodness’ sake, get a grip! her mind shrieked. The man hasn’t even told you he loves you yet, and you’re already thinking children, a future, a lifetime together.

  Because this is right, her heart answered back. Because even when I was engaged to Chris, I never thought of myself with children of my own, never really thought beyond the wedding day, but with Robert…

  With Robert she could picture the two of them growing old together, worrying about their children together, and still loving and caring for one another.

  ‘You wouldn’t credit the things children can get up to when you take your eyes off them for a second, would you?’ Jane chuckled.

  Hannah shook her head and smiled. ‘Have you ever thought about having children, Jane?’ she asked before she could stop herself.

  ‘Have I ever…?’ The sister looked at her in surprise. ‘What on earth put that question into your head?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hannah replied, all too annoyingly aware that she was blushing. ‘Maybe I’m getting broody or something.’

  ‘I’d watch it, then,’ Jane chuckled again. ‘Quite normal, rational women have been known to get themselves into all sorts of trouble when they start to get broody.’

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ Hannah said, fighting down her mounting colour without success. ‘But, seriously, Jane, have you ever thought about having children?’

  The sister sighed, her grey eyes suddenly a little rueful, almost a little sad. ‘Of course I have, but some
things…some things just aren’t meant to be. You can love someone until you’re blue in the face, and if they don’t even know you’re around…’

  Jane wasn’t looking at her as she spoke but at something else across the room, and as Hannah followed her gaze she suddenly realised with a shock that it wasn’t a something the sister was gazing at so wistfully, but a someone.

  Elliot Mathieson.

  Sensible, level-headed Sister Halden was in love with Elliot Mathieson. She would never have guessed it—not in a million years.

  ‘Jane—’

  ‘Did I tell you that bloke with the steel bar in his chest is doing really well in Intensive Care?’ her colleague interrupted. ‘The newspapers are calling him the miracle man, and I’m not surprised. Just the thought of having a steel bar imbedded in my chest is enough to give me night-mares.’

  It wasn’t a very subtle way of changing the subject—in fact, it wasn’t subtle at all—but what could Hannah say? That she was sure everything would turn out right for Jane in the end? They both knew it wouldn’t. They both knew only too well that Elliot was never going to settle down with anyone.

  ‘Jane, I’m sorry—’

  ‘Lord, but standing here talking about children isn’t getting on with the work.’ The girl smiled with an effort. ‘I’ve a stack of forms to fill in and if I don’t get them in before Friday Admin will hang me out to dry and I won’t be a sister any more, far less a mother!’

  Hannah chuckled but her laughter died when Jane bustled off purposefully down the treatment room.

  To love someone, and know they scarcely noticed you…She’d experienced a little of that with Robert, and it had been miserable, wretched. She was so lucky, she thought as she checked the white board, then walked quickly towards cubicle 1. Lucky that the man she’d fallen in love with loved her. Lucky that for once in her life everything seemed to be going right.

  In fact, she felt so happy today that she didn’t even feel angry when the patient asked for a second opinion. All she felt was irritated.

  ‘It sounds to me from his symptoms that he’s got a classic case of heartburn,’ Robert declared when she explained her problem. ‘To be fair to your patient, it can be very easy to think you’re having a heart attack if the pain is really severe, but if you were having a heart attack the pain wouldn’t be worse at night when you lie down, then get better when you sit up.’

  ‘I know that—and you know that,’ she said, ‘but I just can’t convince him. I’ve shown him his ECG reading—even let him see his BP—but the trouble is that his father died at forty-two from a cardiac arrest and he’s convinced the same thing’s going to happen to him.’

  ‘Cubicle 1, you said?’ Robert queried. ‘OK. Leave him to me.’

  And to her amazement, within fifteen minutes Robert was escorting a clearly very relieved patient towards the exit.

  ‘How did you do that—what did you say?’ she demanded.

  ‘Trade secret.’ He grinned.

  ‘You’re not getting away with that,’ she protested. ‘Come on—confession time.’

  He laughed. ‘OK. I simply gave him some hospital-strength indigestion-busting solution which eased his heartburn, and when the pain disappeared he had to accept he wasn’t dying after all.’

  ‘Robert Cunningham, you’re wonderful!’ Hannah beamed.

  He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her, and his voice when he spoke was husky. ‘And have I told you recently that I think you’re pretty wonderful, too?’

  A smile curved her lips. ‘Oh, maybe once or twice.’

  ‘Once or twice?’ he protested.

  ‘OK, make that three or four times.’ She laughed, her eyes sparkling.

  He stared at her for a moment, indignation and amusement warring with each other on his face, then growled, ‘Woman, will you stop looking at me like that?’

  ‘Like what?’ she protested, truly bewildered.

  ‘All flushed, and glowing, and completely and utterly desirable.’ Robert shook his head ruefully. ‘Hannah, you’re playing hell with my concentration. All I can think when I look at you is roll on half past eleven.’

  ‘Something special happening at half past eleven, is there?’ she asked, schooling her features into a picture of bland innocence.

  ‘I’m hoping so,’ he replied, his eyes suddenly gleaming. ‘I’m hoping that by the time I get back to Wellington Place a very special girl might be waiting in my bed for me.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you can always hope,’ she replied, deciding to tease him just a little, and saw a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘And if this very special, very particular girl should happen to be in my bed,’ he continued, his eyes fixed on her, dark with promise, ‘and should happen to be willing…’

  ‘Willing to do what?’ she said a little breathlessly.

  ‘Turn up at half past eleven, and you’ll find out.’ He winked.

  A splutter of laughter came from her as he disappeared into his office, laughter that became acute consternation when she noticed Floella and Jane tucking into a huge box of chocolates.

  ‘Oh, heck, it’s not somebody’s birthday today, is it, and I’ve forgotten?’ she asked as she joined them.

  ‘Uh-uh,’ Floella mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate. ‘Do you remember Sheila Vernon?’

  Hannah frowned. ‘Can’t say the name rings a bell.’

  ‘Of course it does,’ the staff nurse protested. ‘Ruptured ovarian cyst. The gynae consultant came down to confirm it, and he wasn’t best pleased at the time because he’d been having coffee with Gussie Granton up in Paediatrics. That’s all off, by the way,’ Floella continued, helping herself to another chocolate. ‘Gorgeous Gussie’s on the loose again, and rumour has it that as Elliot and Robert are the only male members of staff she hasn’t dated—’

  ‘You were talking about Sheila Vernon, Flo?’ Hannah said pointedly.

  ‘Were we?’ The staff nurse frowned. ‘Oh—yes, so we were. Well, apparently she was discharged from Women’s Surgical last week, and in grateful thanks for the care she got at St Stephen’s she sent a box of chocs to Women’s Surgical and one to us.’

  ‘How very kind of her,’ Hannah exclaimed, popping a chocolate into her mouth.

  ‘Unusual, too,’ Jane observed. ‘Most people remember to thank the staff on the wards after they’ve come in as an emergency, but precious few remember the poor Cinderellas down in The Pit who first diagnosed what was wrong with them. In fact, I can remember one time when—’

  ‘Hannah, could I have a word with you?’ Robert interrupted, appearing beside them without warning.

  ‘Would you like a chocolate?’ She smiled, holding the box out to him. ‘Sheila Vernon—’

  ‘No, I don’t want a chocolate. What I want is a word with you—now!’

  Slowly she put the box of chocolates down. Something was wrong—very badly wrong. His face was white and taut, and mentally she reviewed all the casualties she’d seen that night. There’d been nothing particularly serious—actually, it had been a relatively quiet evening for them, apart from the constant sounds of rockets and bangers going off outside the hospital.

  ‘Robert—’

  ‘In my office!’

  He whirled round on his heel before she could say another word, and quickly she followed him, all too aware that Floella and Jane were staring after her with concern. His office. Not the staffroom for a cup of coffee and a cosy chat. His office meant he didn’t want anyone to hear their conversation. His office meant trouble—big trouble.

  ‘What is it—what’s wrong?’ she asked, the moment he’d shut the door.

  ‘This!’ he exclaimed, picking up a sheet of paper from his desk and waving it under her nose. ‘I want to know if what it says in this is true!’

  ‘If you’d keep the damn thing still long enough for me to be able to read it, I might be able to answer you,’ Hannah said, bewildered. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I came in to collect some f
iles I needed and found this anonymous note on my desk.’

  ‘Bin it,’ she declared firmly. ‘Anybody who hasn’t got the guts to sign their name—’

  ‘Is Charles Blake your father?’

  The colour drained from her face instantly. Never in all her wildest dreams would she have imagined that he might want to speak to her about that. ‘Robert—’

  ‘Is—it—true?’ he said, each word cold and clipped.

  She stared at him unhappily for a second, then nodded. ‘Yes—yes, it’s true, but, Robert, I can explain…’

  Furiously he threw the sheet of paper down on his desk, and distractedly she noticed it was typed. She supposed people who wrote anonymous letters always typed their poison, and seeing Robert’s face—his eyes a mixture of anger, hurt and disillusionment—she knew that if she ever found out who’d sent it, she’d pummel them senseless.

  ‘Robert…’ She put her hand out to him and felt utter dismay when he backed away. ‘Robert, does it matter who my father is?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it matters,’ he said, his lips compressed into a tight white line. ‘It matters because you didn’t tell me. It matters because I had to find out from…from this…’ He picked up the sheet of paper again and crushed it between his fingers. ‘And it matters because you lied to me.’

  ‘I didn’t lie! I just…’ She flushed scarlet. ‘I just didn’t tell you.’

  ‘And why not, Hannah? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was important,’ she faltered. ‘Elliot said I should—’

  ‘You told Elliot?’ he thundered, and she flinched. ‘Who else at St Stephen’s knows? The porters, the cleaners, the guy who sells newspapers in the canteen?’

  ‘Only our consultant,’ she said quickly, ‘and he only knows because it’s on my CV, but I didn’t tell Elliot—he found out himself.’

  ‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better, is it?’ He strode over to his waste-paper bin and threw in the letter. ‘That’s supposed to make everything all right?’

  She took a hesitant step towards him. ‘Robert, when I came to St Stephen’s I didn’t want anyone to know who my father is because I didn’t want anybody to have any preconceptions about me. I wanted to be judged on my own merits—’