The Country Doctor's Choice (5 page)

He shrugged. ‘Who can say, Shelagh? Your guess is as good as mine – a month, perhaps, or maybe two or three. You know how impossible it is to predict in terminal—in cases like this. The main aim is to keep her as comfortable as we can. There’ll be a bed for her here whenever she needs it.’

‘Thank you, Mr Kydd.’

‘I can’t help feeling pleased that you’ll be staying with us for a while,’ he said with a smile. ‘Our patients will always be giving us new problems to solve. By the way, I intend to take our Mrs Blake to theatre on Friday, and we’ll be under orders from Dr McDowall regarding her medication for the epilepsy – but he’ll be under
our
supervision as obstetric surgeons, so we’d better not fall out!’ He chuckled. ‘I think we’re going to have a few disagreements before he’s finished his course, but I’m confident that he’ll find the “old man” and the senior houseman – I mean woman – rather more than he bargained for!’

It was impossible not to smile, and Shelagh was grateful. ‘I’d better get back to Maternity, sir – I need to carry on as normal, and I can see my mother at any time of the day or night. Thank you again, Mr Kydd.’

‘Good girl, Shelagh.’ His smile and handshake hid the pity he felt for her.

Ever since Jennifer Gifford had excitedly reported that she had started getting morning sickness, Phyllis had begun to experience unexplained doubts about the pregnancy, and was not surprised when she received Jenny’s frantic phone call before seven two days later.

‘Oh, Mum, I’m losing blood – a
lot
of blood, it’s pouring out – oh, Mum, what shall I
do
?’

‘Get Tim to send for whoever’s on call at the surgery, straight away, Jenny dear – and try to keep calm. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

‘Oh, this is the end!’ wailed Jenny. ‘I’m no use, no good, I’m barren –
barren
! Tim’ll have to divorce me and marry a woman who can give him a child! It’s not
his
fault, he’s had all those blasted sperm counts and froze his testicles in that icy water – but it’s
me
, I’m the culprit, I’ll leave him for his own good, I’m a failure!’

And so she continued for the rest of the day. Tim took the morning off from work, but was unable to comfort her. He turned to his mother-in-law when he too shed tears, not so much for the disappointment as for his wife’s desperation.

‘I’ve told her again and again, Phyllis, I don’t mind if we don’t have kids, as long as I’ve got her – only she won’t listen, and I’m at my wit’s end. What can I do to make her see that I love her, and don’t
want
another woman, not if she had twenty bloody kids – oh, Phyllis, don’t ask me to put my trust in God. He’s been a cruel bastard to my poor Jenny!’

‘Ssh, ssh, Tim, that sort of talk will get you nowhere, though I can sympathise with how you must feel,’ Phyllis told him, cradling his head on her shoulder, just as she’d tried to comfort her daughter. Their GP, Dr James had called and said he felt fairly sure that the bleeding was menstrual, and not an early miscarriage, but either way it made no difference, and all he could do was inject a strong sedative to calm Jenny for the time being, write out a sick note and advise rest and reassurance.

Except that there was no reassurance to be had. Marion and her husband had sent their sympathy, and cards arrived from Jenny’s colleagues at Everham Primary. Jeremy North phoned to tell her to take as much time off as she needed, though he knew she would be badly missed as Christmas was looming up with all its concerts, plays and parties; it couldn’t have come at a worse time, he thought gloomily. At least he had managed to despatch Catherine to her aunt and uncle at Basingstoke, and his sister had assured him that the poor girl could stay with them for as long as she liked – even over Christmas if that was what she wished. ‘As you know, Jerry, we’ve been disappointed in our hopes of a family, and we’re only too glad to help out with yours. The poor girl’s only seventeen, isn’t she?’

‘Thanks, sis, it really is appreciated,’ he told her, fervently hoping that Catherine would not drive them crazy within a week.

And there was the choir – and Iris Oates and her adoration. He was, after all, only a man, and how could he look at the light in her eyes and remain unmoved, untouched, untempted? Tempted to do what? He was a married man, a
very
married man and a father and grandfather; and Iris was a Miss, which could mean single or divorced, aged somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, about a decade younger than himself. A nice girl with a pleasant face, not beautiful, a decent figure, nothing out of the ordinary except for that sweet, clear soprano voice and the effect it had on him – and the effect he clearly had on her. She was a newcomer to Everham, but where she lived and who, if anybody, she lived with, he had no idea. Now, if after the next choir rehearsal he asked her out for a quiet drink and she accepted, he would soon learn the answers …

‘There’s a packet for you on the table, Derek,’ said Daphne as the Revd Bolt came in at the end of an afternoon of pastoral counselling, visiting parishioners who needed to talk. ‘All the other post is on your desk. I had to sign for it, recorded delivery.’

‘Hi there, my favourite wife,’ he said, hanging up his coat and taking off his clerical collar. ‘How’ve you been today?’

‘Oh, well enough,’ she answered with a shrug.
‘Just the usual dead-tiredness and can’t concentrate on all the Christmas preparations, all the things a good clergy wife is supposed to do – preside over the Mothers’ Union, and listen to the deadly dull minutes of the last meeting, decide who’s to give the vote of thanks to a God-awful speaker, while missing the documentary on BBC2. Oh, my God, Derek, is there anything more depressing than a menopausal woman? I’m sorry.’

‘Poor old girl,’ he sympathised. ‘The boys’ll soon be home for Christmas, and they’ll do you good. You’ll buck up when they come hurtling through the door, with all their left-wing ideals and stories of university goings-on, all the ribaldry – ah, youth, youth!’

‘Bless them,’ she said with affection.

‘Why don’t you join Jerry North’s Christmas choir? They’re making amazing progress, and attracting a lot more members. I looked in on them the other evening, and thought what a magician he is. He could get music from a chorus of cats.’

‘No thanks, Derek, not for me. I couldn’t stand all the chatter. The woman in the bread shop told me that peculiar woman Beryl Johnson has just joined, you know, the one who lost her mother a while back, and was so hysterical at the funeral. It’d do her more good than it would me.’

Derek froze. He stared at the packet on the sideboard, a small, square box that had come by
recorded delivery. He mustn’t open it in front of Daphne. He scooped it up with the other mail and winked at her.

‘Better get the office work done before supper, then we’ll have a nice, quiet evening.’

‘Aren’t you going to open that?’ she asked.

‘Oh, it’ll only be a sample of something we don’t need from the diocesan office,’ he said, and left the room before she could answer. In his stone-cold study – the central heating of the vicarage was kept to a minimum – he picked up the silver paperknife on the desk, and cut the brown paper to find his fears confirmed. It was a red box with a well-known jewellers’ name engraved on it, and it contained a gold tiepin, with a single diamond in the centre, nestling on a black velvet lining.

There was also a letter, and his initial reaction was to tear it up unread, but caution dictated that he should check the contents in case there were any threats or indications as to what she might do if he ignored her. Taking it out of its envelope and holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it were a stinging insect, he shook it open.

‘Dear Reverend Bolt, dearest Derek,’
he read.

Out of the question, he thought. How could the woman expect him to take such a risk, a clergyman, and a married man with a family? The letter continued as if answering him.

For heaven’s sake, she’s obsessed, she’s mad, he thought, and what might she do? He groaned inwardly. I can’t possibly wear the tiepin, which must have cost at least a hundred pounds, possibly two, and I’ll have to keep it in the safe. Suppose Daphne – ought I to confide in Daphne in case she finds out? What a disaster. And there was more.

A few more lines in the same vein ended with ‘
your constantly devoted Beryl who beseeches you for an answer
.’

Derek glanced at his watch: Daphne was preparing supper and would soon be calling him to the kitchen table where they ate informally when alone. What on earth was he to
do
? He screwed up the letter in his hand and shoved it and the jewellers’ box into the wall safe where he kept St Matthew’s petty cash. Damn the woman, he would no longer be able to look in on Jeremy North’s Christmas choir rehearsals, not without awkwardness and embarrassment, with her hungry eyes following his every move.

He glanced through the rest of the post – two circulars from the council, three charity requests and a few more Christmas cards. No doubt there would be one from
her
among the many that poured through the letter box, hand-delivered. His stomach gave a lurch as he imagined Daphne picking up the mail.

In the darkness of the hospital car park, on the back
seat of Paul Sykes’ car, Shelagh laid her dark head on his shoulder; he encircled her with his arms, whispering in her ear.

‘Darling, you need a good rest, right away from this place. Ever since this worrying time with your mother I’ve been longing to be near you – but you’ve seemed so far away.’

‘Oh, Paul, if you only knew how much I’ve longed for
you
– I need you more than ever,’ she answered. ‘But I can’t see how or when we can be together, now that the caravan’s closed for the winter.’

‘I know, Shelagh, I know only too well how you feel,’ he said softly, letting his right hand cup her left breast and kissing her. She clung tightly to him, as if to draw strength from his body into hers. He chuckled quietly.

‘Listen, when we next both get a Saturday to Sunday night off, I’ll drive us down to a nice little B & B just outside of Eastbourne, hidden away, “far from the madding crowd” – how does that sound?’

‘Wonderful, Paul, as soon as we can. I’ve written to my mother’s sister in Donegal, hoping she’ll be able to come over and stay with her when she’s discharged – and as soon as that’s sorted, we can head for Eastbourne.’

She gave a long, deep sigh, and Paul’s body reacted sharply to her nearness.

‘God, I want to make love to you, Shelagh! I hate these behind-the-scenes capers – but we’ll make up
for it, darling, won’t we? Kiss me – and again.’

‘I’ll have to go now, Paul. McDowall’s covering for me, and I don’t want to give him something else to joke about.’

‘One last kiss, then. Mmmm …’

When Jane Blake was wheeled into the maternity theatre, Shelagh knew she would need all her concentration. She was to assist Mr Kydd, and they stood together at the washbasins, ‘scrubbing up’, after which they put on surgical gloves and thrust their arms into sterile green gowns tied at the back by Elise the auxiliary ‘runner’. Dr Okoje the anaesthetist had already sent her to sleep with an injection of pentothal, and Dr McDowall was adjusting the flow of the intravenous drip containing a measured amount of her anti-epileptic medication; the paediatrician Dr Fisher waited beside a heated cot with oxygen and aspirator ready if needed. Sister Tanya Dickenson was setting out her trolley with bowls of sterile water, gauze swabs and the swivelling Mayo tray on which lay the instruments to be used first: knife blade, dissection forceps and artery clamp. Mr Blake sat just outside the theatre, wearing a green theatre gown, ready to see his baby as soon as it was born. So, reflected Shelagh, there were nine adults, including the parents, anxiously awaiting the arrival of a small premature baby into the world.

It took only a few minutes for the surgeon to sever
the layers of skin, muscle and the shiny uterine wall containing the baby in its warm, watery nest; and as Shelagh held back the abdominal retractors, Mr Kydd deftly removed and held up a tiny baby girl, pink and slippery, and although she was undersized, she gave a mewing cry as if protesting against being thus disturbed. Her little legs jerked and her fists clenched as Shelagh clamped and cut the umbilical cord and handed her to Dr Fisher. Everybody in the theatre exhaled after a tense quarter of an hour.

‘She seems to be in pretty good shape,’ remarked Dr Fisher.

‘At nine-seventeen precisely,’ noted Shelagh.

‘Weight one point seven kilograms,’ added Fisher, and carried her out of the theatre, where her father stepped forward eagerly.

‘Hallo, Dad, I’m a girl!’ said Fisher as Blake gazed in awe.

‘What a little peach!’ he said shakily, but Fisher did not linger; he carried the baby away to the Special Care Baby Unit, where she would be placed in an incubator and assessed.