Neurosurgeon...and Mum! (2 page)

O
N
Thursday morning, just as the rush hour ended, Amy left London for Norfolk. By lunchtime, she’d reached the large seaside town where her uncle had lived ever since Amy was tiny. The place where she’d spent many happy summers. The place that might just help her to sort her head out.

She parked on the gravelled area in front of Marsh End House; there was no other car there, so she assumed that the locum was on duty at the surgery, unless maybe he didn’t have a car. She went to the fifth large cobble stone in the flower border to the right of the front door and lifted it; as she expected, the front door key sat underneath it. She let herself in and heard a volley of excited barks from the kitchen; as soon as she opened the door, Buster nearly knocked her flying.

She knelt down on the floor and made a fuss of him. ‘You’re meant to be a staid old dog, not a bouncy pup,’ she admonished him with a smile. ‘Look at all the grey in your face. And you’re still just like you were twelve years ago.’

Buster responded by resting his front paws on her shoulders and licking her face enthusiastically.

‘You big old softie,’ she said. ‘OK, let me bring my stuff in and have a cup of tea and then I’ll take you for a run.’

His tail thumped madly, and she grinned. ‘It’s so good to be home.’ Funny, Cassie and Joe’s place had always been home to her—more so than her parents’ house in London or her own flat, even. Marsh End House was a Victorian Gothic masterpiece, built of red brick with arched windows, lots of pointed gables and an elaborate turret that had been the centre of the games she’d played with Beth and her two younger brothers in those long, hot summers. Games of wizards and princesses and magic castle—followed by sandcastle competitions on the beach, games of cricket and football and exploring the rockpools at low tide. Here was where she’d always been happiest.

And best of all was the kitchen, right in the heart of the house. Where scraped knees had been washed, kissed better and covered with a dressing; the cake tin had always been full; and, as they had grown older, the kettle had always been hot and Cassie always there to listen and not judge.

So many wonderful memories.

Would they be enough to heal her now?

There was an envelope with her name on it propped against the biscuit tin in the middle of the kitchen table. Recognising her aunt’s handwriting, Amy opened it.

Have made a bed for you in your old room.

In the turret. Fabulous. She’d be overlooking the marshes towards the sea, her favourite view in the world, and the sun would wake her every morning. And maybe here she wouldn’t have the nightmares.

Tom will introduce himself and Perdy to you at some point.

So the locum was married? Well, that wasn’t a problem; the house was big enough for them not to get in each other’s way.

Make sure you eat properly.

She couldn’t help smiling. The first thing Cassie did to everyone was to feed them. Though Amy knew her aunt had a point; she hadn’t been able to summon up the energy to make a proper meal for months. She’d been living on sandwiches and canteen food, and picking even at those. Maybe the sea air would help to bring back her appetite.

There was a postscript in Joe’s atrocious handwriting: if she found herself at a loose end, there was a box in his study with some of Joseph Rivers’s casebooks. She might want to take a look through them and put them in some sort of order. There were more in a box in the attic, if she wanted to bring them down.

Joseph had been the first surgeon in the family, back in the late 1820s; for years both Joe and her father had talked of sorting out his papers and doing something with the casebooks. But her father had been offered a professorship in cardiac surgery in the States and Joe had been busy with his GP practice, so it had never happened. Once or twice Carrie had suggested that maybe the next generation would like to do it but, the last time the subject had been raised, Beth had been busy carving out a career in computing, Joey and Martin had been studying for their finals and Amy had just switched specialties to neurosurgery, which had absorbed every second of her time. And so nothing had ever happened with Joseph’s papers.

Maybe looking through his papers might help her remember why she’d become a doctor in the first place, Amy thought. Or give her a clue as to where her path led now. Because, right now, she had no idea what was going to happen with the rest of her life. It was like staring into a tunnel without even a pinprick of light at the end. Even thinking about it made her feel as if she were suffocating in blackness. And she felt so very, very alone.

She lugged her suitcase upstairs to her room and left it at the end of the bed before heading back to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She was halfway through a cup of tea, a sandwich and the cryptic crossword in the newspaper she’d bought on impulse that morning when the front door opened.

Buster gave a sharp bark to warn her that someone was there, and then a warmer, more welcoming woof, and skidded up the hallway to greet the person who’d just walked in.

‘Hey, Buster. Go find your Frisbee and we’ll have ten minutes in the garden.’

This must be Tom, the locum, Amy thought. He had a nice voice, deep and calm with the slightest trace of a London accent.

Just as she registered it, he walked into the kitchen. ‘Hello. You must be Amy. I’m Tom Ashby.’

He was in his early thirties, she’d guess, around her own age; he had a shock of dark wavy hair that he’d brushed back from his forehead, very fair skin, and hazel eyes hidden behind wire-framed glasses. His smile was polite enough, but there was a seriousness to him and an intensity that made her wonder what he’d look like if he let himself relax and laughed. Whether his mouth would soften into a sexy grin and his eyes would crinkle at the corners.

Not that it was any of her business. She already knew that Tom was unavailable; in any case, relationships weren’t her thing. Since the wreckage of her engagement to Colin, ten years before, she’d kept all dates light and very, very casual; she was just fine and dandy on her own.

‘Hello.’ Amy shook Tom’s proffered hand. ‘Cassie left me a note. She said you’d introduce yourself and Perdy at some point.’

‘Perdy’s at school.’

So Tom’s wife was a teacher. ‘I see,’ Amy said, giving
him a polite smile and hoping that by the time Perdy came home she’d have managed to find a stock of small talk.

Amy Rivers was nothing like Tom had imagined. For a start, she was gorgeous. Too thin, and there was a pallor in her face to go with the bagginess in her clothes that told him she hadn’t been looking after herself properly, but she was still beautiful. Her sea-green eyes reminded him of Joe’s; her dark hair was cut very short and yet managed to be feminine rather than making her look aggressive or butch. Her mouth was a perfect rosebud; it made him want to reach out and trace her lower lip with the tip of his finger.

Not that he was going to give in to the impulse.

Apart from the fact that Amy Rivers could already be involved with someone and wouldn’t welcome his advances, there was Perdy to consider. She’d had enough upheaval in her life, and the last year had been seriously rough. She really didn’t need her father forgetting himself and behaving like a teenager. So Tom knew he had to treat Amy just as if she were another colleague, even though they didn’t actually work together. Polite enough to avoid any friction, but distant enough not to get involved. Keep everything to small talk.

‘How was your journey?’ he asked politely.

‘Fine, thanks. I got stuck behind a tractor three miles out of town, but that’s par for the course around here at this time of year.’ She indicated her mug. ‘The kettle’s hot. Can I get you a coffee or something?’

‘That’d be nice. Thanks.’

‘How do you like it?’

‘Just milk, no sugar, please.’

She switched the kettle on and shook instant coffee into a mug. ‘So Buster’s suckered you into playing Frisbee with him. Have you taught him to drop it yet?’

‘I wish. He normally leaves it under the trees at the bottom of the garden and waits for me to fetch it.’

‘You’d never believe his pedigree’s full of field trial champions, would you?’ Amy finished making the coffee and handed the mug to Tom.

His fingers brushed against hers and desire zinged down his spine.

Not good. It was the first time he’d felt that pull of attraction since Eloise. Given how badly that had ended, he wasn’t prepared to take a second risk—even if Amy Rivers turned out to be single.

‘Cassie says you’re staying for a while,’ he said, deliberately putting the whole length of the table between them. Not that it stopped him noticing her face was heart shaped. Or how fine her fingers were, wrapped around her mug of tea. No ring on her left hand: not that that meant anything nowadays. You didn’t have to be married to be committed. But she had beautiful hands. Delicate hands. An artist’s hands, maybe? Neither Cassie nor Joe had told him much about Amy. Just that she was their niece, she lived in London, and she was taking some time out from her job. Cassie had looked worried, which implied that there was a problem with Amy’s job, but Tom hadn’t pressed for details; it wasn’t his place to ask.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t get in your way,’ she said, her face shuttering.

And now he’d put her back up. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to suggest that you would. There’s plenty of room for all of us. I was just thinking, maybe we could all eat together. It seems a bit pointless, cooking separately. But that doesn’t mean I expect you to do all the cooking,’ he added hastily. ‘Maybe we can share the chores.’

‘Sure.’ She still looked slightly wary: a look he’d seen
all too often on his daughter’s face. Meaning that she wanted space.

‘Look, I’ll go and wear Buster out a bit, then I’ve got a couple of house calls to make,’ he said.

‘You’re not stopping for lunch?’

‘I’ll get something later.’

She bit her lip. ‘Look, I meant it about not getting in your way. And don’t feel you’re obliged to entertain me or anything.’

‘Ditto,’ he said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, we’re sharing the house and looking after the dog for Joe and Cassie. And we’re sharing chores because it makes sense. It’s more efficient.’

She was silent for a moment, and then she nodded. ‘Agreed. Well, I ought to stop lazing around and unpack. I’ll catch you later.’

‘What about your sandwich?’ he asked. She’d eaten less than half of it, he noticed.

‘Did Cassie ask you to watch my eating?’ Amy asked.

He felt himself flush. ‘No. Just that I didn’t want you to feel I was pushing you out of the kitchen before you’d finished.’ Was that what the problem was? Amy had some kind of eating disorder and it had caused her to have a breakdown at work? In which case she must have interpreted his suggestion of eating together as pushing her, too. This was going to be a minefield.

To his surprise, she smiled. ‘Thank you. And, no, I don’t have any kind of eating disorder.’

He groaned. ‘Did I say that out loud? I apologise.’

‘No, you just have an expressive face,’ Amy said dryly. ‘I admit, I haven’t been eating properly lately, because I’ve been busy at work and when you’re under pressure and rushed for time it’s easier to grab fast food. That, or wait
until you get home and it’s so late that you’re too tired to bother with more than a bit of toast. But you don’t have to worry that you’ll starve when it’s my turn to make dinner. Cassie taught me to cook.’

Why hadn’t Amy’s mother taught her? Tom wondered.

Or maybe Amy’s mother was the kind of mother that his wife had been. Distant. Feeling trapped. Wanting to do her own thing and wishing that she’d never got married and had a child to hold her back.

‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be prying,’ he said. And he certainly didn’t want to answer any questions about his own past. ‘How about I cook for us tonight?’

‘You’ve been at work.’

He shrugged. ‘And you’ve had a long drive, which I’d say is more tiring—especially as I know there are roadworks on the motorway and you’ve probably been stuck in traffic for a while. It’s no problem. Really.’

‘Then I’ll wash up,’ she said.

‘Deal.’ Though he didn’t offer to shake on it. Because he had a feeling that once he touched Amy Rivers, he’d want more. A lot more. And it would get way, way too complicated.

She’d vanished by the time he’d finished playing with Buster. He made himself a sandwich, checked the dog’s water bowl was full then headed out on his house calls.

‘I hear young Amy’s back,’ Mrs Poole, his first patient, said as he removed the dressing to check the ulcer just above her ankle.

He looked up at her, surprised. ‘Wow. The grapevine’s fast around here.’ Amy couldn’t have arrived more than a couple of hours ago.

‘Well, a car with a registration plate saying “AMY” parked outside Marsh End House has to be hers, doesn’t it?’ She shrugged. ‘Not that she’s been down here for a
while now. Funny that she decides to turn up this week, with Joe and Cassie just off to Australia.’

Tom didn’t appreciate gossip about himself and he had a feeling that Amy would be the same. ‘She’s house- and dog-sitting for her aunt and uncle.’

‘I thought that was what you were supposed to be doing.’

‘You know what they say. Many hands make light work,’ Tom said with a smile, and concentrated on checking the ulcer for granulation.

‘Used to spend every summer here, she did. Too quiet by miles for the first week, but by the end of the summer she was getting as grubby as the boys and plotting all kinds of things with young Beth.’

Too quiet. Just as his own daughter was. But Amy had had her cousins to help her out of her shell. Perdy had nobody except him, and so far he was a big fat failure.

He changed the subject swiftly. ‘I’m really pleased with the way you’re healing. So you’ve been keeping your leg up, as I suggested?’

‘Yes. Though I hate sitting still.’ Mrs Poole tutted. ‘I’ve never been one to sit and do nothing.’

‘Gentle exercise is fine,’ Tom said. ‘But if you overdo it, the ulcer will take longer to heal. You don’t have to sit around all the time, just make sure you rest with your leg up for half an hour, three or four times a day, to take the pressure off your veins.’ He cleaned the ulcer gently then put a fresh dressing on, topping it with an elastic bandage. ‘Can you circle your ankle for me, Mrs Poole, so I can check that bandage isn’t too tight for you?’