Clare lifted her head and eased her arms away from Michael’s shoulders. He was asleep again, his hair tousled, and he looked suddenly very young and vulnerable.
Deborah’s mouth tightened in sympathy. She took his pulse, counted his breathing and then slipped the thermometer under his tongue. He didn’t stir, either then or when she inflated the cuff of the sphygmomanometer to check his blood-pressure.
‘OK?’ Clare asked softly. Deborah nodded.
‘Mr Mayhew’s on the ward—he’s coming to have a look at the stump in a minute. How’s he going on fluids?’
She checked the level of the water jug, jotted the amount on the chart and returned the board to the end of the bed just as Tim Mayhew came in.
‘Ah, Clare, my dear—out of uniform at last. How is the patient?’ he asked, skimming the charts.
‘Sleeping a lot. I think it’s sinking in.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Yes, that is always the hardest part with a traumatic amputation. The next hurdle is getting him to look at it without a dressing—which is what I want to do now. Are you staying, or going?’
She met his sympathetic eyes. ‘May I stay?’
‘Of course. I imagine you’ll be partly responsible for his nursing care in the next couple of weeks anyway, so you’ll see it sooner or later. Might as well get it over with.’
Mary O’Brien wheeled in a dressing trolley, and while Deborah supported his leg, Mary unwrapped the light crêpe bandage and removed the wadding.
Summoning up her professionalism, Clare forced herself to watch. He had done a neat job, she had to give him that. There was a suture line running diagonally across the end of his stump, the sutures alternating with Steristrips to avoid scarring.
‘I did a skew-flap myoplastic amputation, which is what he himself would have chosen, of course, partly because it’s best cosmetically and surgically, and partly because the recovery time is quickest and, knowing Michael, he’ll want to be up and about in the shortest possible time. Yes, that looks very healthy. Of course the tissues were quite undamaged at this level so we’ve got optimum conditions—a fit, healthy patient, a clean limb, little delay before operation—really one couldn’t ask for more. The other chap’s in much worse shape.’
He inspected the fluid collected by the suction drain, nodded his satisfaction and asked Mary O’Brien to redress the wound. ‘How’s he coping with the pain?’
‘He’s been getting a bit edgy,’ Deborah said. ‘He hasn’t complained, but he’s obviously in quite a lot of pain.’
‘Hmm. Well, we’ll leave it as it is if we can, but I’ll write him up for more in case you think he needs it. There’s nothing to be gained from unnecessary suffering. Right, thank you, ladies. I’ll be back later today to see how he is.’
As the door closed behind him, Mary O’Brien looked up from the dressing.
‘OK?’
Clare nodded. ‘Yes, I think so. It’s all a bit unreal.’
Mary smiled understandingly. ‘I’m sure. Your mother and father are here, my love. I’ve put them in the day-room. Why don’t you take them for a cup of coffee?’
She did that, and told them in detail all about the horrendous events of the past twenty-four hours. Somehow talking about it helped to get it in perspective, and they were philosophical and supportive, but naturally worried about Clare.
‘It’s such a new relationship, darling,’ her mother said gently, ‘and I just wonder if you’ll find it has the strength to come through. In many ways it might be best if it doesn’t——’
‘Mummy! I love him—how could it possibly be best?’
Her father laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. ‘I think what your mother is saying is that you should keep an eye on your feelings—don’t let them cloud your judgement, and above all, don’t stay with him out of pity. You’ll have to keep your sympathy firmly under wraps, I would imagine—he didn’t strike me as a man who takes kindly to molly-coddling.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll bear it in mind—and I will have to keep my own feelings away from him, I know that. I must get back to him. Thank you so much for coming over, I feel much better. I’ll ring you tonight.’
She kissed them goodbye at the main entrance and made her way back to the ward just as Michael woke up.
‘Perfect timing,’ Deborah said. ‘You can take over and do his pressure areas while I go for lunch—bye, gorgeous. Be good, now!’
He gave a tired laugh and lifted a hand in a weary wave.
Clare smiled. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Sore—Deborah’s just increased the Pethidine. Do I really have to have another bloody back-rub?’
‘I don’t know, some people are so ungrateful,’ she scolded cheerfully. ‘Come on, let’s have you over on your side—carefully does it—that’s lovely.’ As she powdered her hand and rubbed firmly over the base of his spine, he sighed and seemed to resign himself to the treatment. After she had finished his shoulders and elbows, she moved to his heel.
‘Well, at least I’m saving you some time at that end,’ he said drily.
‘Oh, God, Michael …’
‘Sorry, that was a sick joke,’ he apologised gruffly. ‘Thank you, that’s much better.’
‘How about a wash and a shave?’
‘I’m tempted. I feel filthy.’
She blanket-bathed him, helped him shave and clean his teeth, and then straightened his pillows and changed the draw sheet. ‘I expect they’ll get you out of bed tomorrow,’ she said cheerfully. ‘That’ll be something to look forward to.’
‘Clare, the only thing I’m looking forward to is getting out of here and back on my feet—oh, hell. You know what I mean.’
She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.
‘I wonder when it will be?’
‘One day at a time, eh, soldier? Let’s get today over with first. Have you got any Perrier yet?’
‘No, I’d love some. Trouble is, the more I drink, the more I want to pee.’
She shrugged and handed him a glass of mineral water. That’s fine. You have to keep your system going. Just thank your lucky stars you didn’t have to have a catheter!’
‘It’s a small consolation!’ He grimaced. ‘It’s all so bloody public!’
‘You wait till you need the commode!’
Michael snorted. ‘I shall wait until I’m up on crutches, or die in the attempt. God, Clare, I never realised how humiliating it is lying in bed dependent on someone else for your very functions!’
She squeezed his hand. ‘It’s only me, Michael.’
‘That’s worse.’ His eyes as they met hers were inexpressibly sad. ‘You shouldn’t have to see all this. It isn’t fair on you.’
She was silent for a long time, and then she looked away. ‘Tough. Just try getting rid of me.’
She went out with the dirty linen, took a deep breath to steady herself and went back into the room. At first she thought he was asleep, but he opened his eyes and looked at her, then gave her a travesty of a smile.
‘You’re a good girl,’ he said softly. ‘I’m sorry this had to happen.’
She shrugged and sighed. ‘Just get better, eh?’ she said in a choked voice. ‘Now, is there anything else I can do for you?’
Physically, he progressed rapidly. By Monday morning the suction drain was out and he was up on crutches with support, and mid-morning saw him down in the Physiotherapy department walking between parallel bars with a pneumatic limb. The structure, carefully designed to encase the whole limb in inflated bags supported by a metal frame, was designed for use very early on to get amputees up and about before they forgot how to walk. It helped to overcome the problem of contractures in the limb caused by the change in muscle balance, and getting patients back on their feet quickly was good for morale.
Not that Michael’s morale was noticeably low. By Tuesday he was practising in his room on crutches, and by Wednesday he was emerging from his doorway to chat to the other patients.
It was on Wednesd
ay morning that Clare, dealing with Danny Drew in one of his most ebullient moods, began to realise that Michael was actually very depressed.
Danny looked over her head and said loudly, ‘Hey, lads, it’s lover-boy. How d’you lose your leg, mate? Bit careless, wasn’t it?’
Michael gave him a knowing smile and raised a crutch in a salute. ‘Morning, Danny. Still on form, I see. Never mind, they’ll have you down to Physio soon. You’ll enjoy that. Bit of pain and frustration will make a man of you yet.’
Then he turned awkwardly on his heel and worked his way back to his room.
‘How dare you speak to him like that?’ Clare said with quiet savagery. ‘Shall I tell you how he lost his leg? An old lady was dying, and he refused to leave her alone, so he was trapped when the train collapsed. I wonder if you would have had that much courage?’
She snapped the sheet back over him, turned on her heel and followed Michael back into his room.
‘Are you OK? Bloody little fool, I could kill him!’
He was standing by the window, staring out across the woodland beside the hospital.
‘I’ll survive,’ he said with dry irony. ‘Actually I could do with some privacy, Clare, if you don’t mind.’
She drew in a sharp breath, stunned by his rejection. ‘Sorry. I—of course.’
She went into Sister’s office and slumped down at the desk. She had sensed his withdrawal from her for some days, but this was the first time he had actually told her to leave him alone.
Shaking off her misery—after all, no one liked to be rejected—she busied herself with the details of ward administration that had to be dealt with that morning.
It was no good, she couldn’t concentrate. She knew he had phoned his grandfather on a couple of occasions—she also knew that he hadn’t told him about his leg. His parents were abroad on holiday and wouldn’t be back for some weeks, and as he said, there was no point in telling them. He had phoned his brother, though, in Germany, and told him. He had also told him not to come, but Clare thought it was a mistake. He had no one except her to lean on, and he didn’t seem inclined to lean on her at all, rather sheltering her from his pain and frustration.
How could you help a man who wouldn’t let you?
She would just have to get him out. At lunchtime she went into his room and suggested he join the other mobile patients in the ward at the long table in the day-room.
‘No, thank you. I’ll eat in here.’
‘Michael, I think——’
‘Clare, lay off! I don’t want to go out there and be jolly!’
‘I wasn’t suggesting you did,’ she said quietly. ‘I just thought some company might do you good.’
‘I don’t want their company,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’m not interested in their curious sympathy or their damned haemorrhoids!’
She stood her ground. ‘How about eating with Barry Warner, then? He can’t get out and he’s very fed up.’
She saw a flicker of guilt. ‘How is he? I haven’t even asked.’
‘Oh, he’s making quite good progress physically, but he’s very uncomfortable and extremely introverted. He can’t hold a book, he says the telly’s awful——’
‘I have to agree with him,’ Michael said wryly. ‘OK, I’ll have lunch with Barry—this time.’
He wheeled round and worked his way up the ward to Barry’s door, knocking lightly before opening it and going in.
‘How’s the patient today?’ he said cheerfully.
‘Foul—bloody hell, what happened to you?’
Clare left him with his explanations, and asked the ward orderly to deliver their meals to Barry’s room. Some time later she heard laughter coming from the room, and sighed with relief. Perhaps now he would be all right.
But she was over-optimistic. By mid-afternoon he was back in his room, lying on his bed staring blankly out of the window.
She was off-duty at four, and went in to sit with him.
He glanced disinterestedly at her and then returned to his contemplation of the window.
‘Don’t you have something to do? Drugs to give, notes to write, rotas to juggle?’
‘I’m off-duty,’ she told him. ‘I thought you might appreciate a visitor.’
‘The only person I really want to see is Pop,’ he said bluntly, ‘and I just can’t face telling him——’
His voice cracked and he turned his head away.
‘Oh, darling,’ she murmured and took his hand. It lay unresponsive in hers, and after a few seconds she squeezed it and let go, standing up.
‘Would you like me to tell him?’
He looked back at her, his eyes tortured. ‘Would you? It’s a lot to ask. I’d love to see him.’
‘I’ll bring him in tonight.’
‘Thanks.’
She bent her head to kiss him, but at the last second he turned away and her lips brushed his cheek.
She breathed in sharply, unbearably hurt. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, as evenly as she could manage, and fled before she disgraced herself by bursting into tears.
Pop took it very well, considering. He sat in his chair in the garden, his gnarled hands knotted on the top of his cane, and stared into the distance for some minutes. Then with a heavy sigh, he turned to Clare.
‘I knew there was something wrong when he rang me. Something about his voice. That’s the thing about being blind, your ears take over. I didn’t like to ask—never do. The boy’ll tell me most things in good time, and if he doesn’t—well, I’ve learn to control my curiosity. But this …’ He shook his head sadly. ‘So how is he?’
‘Physically excellent. He’s made tremendous progress and is walking on a special inflated limb in the Physio department, and he’s learning to manage his crutches very well. He doesn’t seem to be in pain any more, but …’
Pop waited, giving her time.
‘He’s very withdrawn. I think he’s trying to protect me or something, but he won’t lean on me so I feel I can’t help him as much as I’d like. He needs you, Pop.’
He reached out a worn old hand and she took it, drawing comfort from the reassuring squeeze. ‘Needs you, too, but I doubt he’ll admit it yet. Give him time, Clare. He’s a proud man. He’ll come round.’ He levered himself to his feet and straightened slowly. ‘Suppose we’d better go and see him, then. Can you give me a few minutes to get ready?’
‘Of course—can I help?’
He snorted. ‘Think I can still manage the bathroom on my own, my dear!’ he said with a chuckle.
Clare smiled. ‘Yes, I imagine you can, Pop. I’ll wait for you out here. Call me when you’re ready.’
When he appeared she helped him into her little car and drove back to the hospital, parking as close as she could to save his legs. Then she led him up to the ward.
Mary O’Brien was just coming out of Michael’s room, and smiled at them. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Michael!’ she said brightly.
‘Pop!’ Michael turned from his position by the window and swung over to them on his crutches, his face working with emotion. ‘It’s good to see you!’ His voice was unsteady.
‘Hello, old son,’ Pop said gruffly. ‘Heard you were in the wars again.’
Michael sagged on to the edge of the bed and shot Clare a bleak look.
‘Would you mind leaving us on our own?’ he asked distantly.
‘No, of course not. Here, Pop, sit yourself down on this chair—that’s it. Would you like some tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ Michael said emphatically, and with a brief nod she left them alone.
She waited in Sister’s office, watching through the open door. After nearly an hour the door of Michael’s room opened and he stuck his head out.
‘He’s ready to go now,’ he told her, and disappeared back inside.
She followed him into the room. His grandfather was still sitting on the chair, his face stony.
‘Hello, Pop,’ she said kindly. ‘Ready for off?’
‘Give me a h
and up,’ he demanded querulously.
She glanced at Michael but he looked away, so with a tiny shrug she took Pop’s arm and helped him to his feet.
He paused at the door and turned. ‘You’re a bloody fool, son.’
‘Bloody fool or not, Pop, it’s my future, and I have a right to some say in it.’
‘I think it’s a grave mistake.’
‘So it might be, but I don’t think so,’ Michael said heavily, and turned away.
‘Goodnight,’ said Clare quietly, but he ignored her.
The drive back was tense and fraught, each of them preoccupied with their thoughts. Clare was worried about Michael, and about the sudden gulf that seemed to have opened up between them. What had she said or done? Nothing that she could think of, but he was treating her like a leper—or was it himself he was treating like a leper? God knows, she thought. And what about Pop’s parting shot? What was all that about?
Pop was obviously upset by his visit to Michael, but Clare already know him well enough to know he would tell her anything he wanted her to know. In his own words, she’d have to learn to control her curiosity.
She declined his offer of a drink, as it was already getting late and she had a long drive back to the cottage. It was dark by the time she turned into the gate, and was surprised to see a light on in the kitchen.
‘How odd,’ she said to herself. ‘I must have left it on last night.’
Letting herself in without any thought of an intruder, she went straight into the kitchen as usual, and jerked instantly to a halt.
Michael was sitting sprawled in his usual place in the carver at the end of the table, and with a friendly smile he ambled to his feet and strolled towards her, his tanned, hair-strewn legs naked beneath old, comfortable shorts.
Her hand flew to her throat and her eyes widened in confusion.
‘Michael …?’
‘Sorry to startle you—we haven’t met. I’m Andrew, Michael’s brother. And you must be Clare.’
She couldn’t take her eyes off his legs. They were just like Michael’s—literally identical. Except for one detail.
They were perfect.
Clare didn’t even realise she was crying until Andrew tipped up her chin and wiped her eyes with a soft, immaculately laundered handkerchief.
A Perfect Hero Page 8