Читать книгу And Daughter Makes Three - Caroline Anderson - Страница 5

THE rest of that afternoon and evening was relatively quiet. The A and E staff called Frankie once about an elderly lady who had had a fall and broken her hip, and it was decided to admit her for surgery the following day.

After that there seemed to be nothing to do, so armed with her bleeper Frankie made her way back to the doctors’ residence and to the room that for now, at least, was home.

She hadn’t unpacked property the night before, so now she opened her suitcases and put the things away in the drawers, hung up her few dresses and put the cases under the bed. Her books she set out on the shelf above the scarred and battered table, and she was done.

Standing back, she surveyed the room critically and sighed. There wasn’t much to show for twenty-eight years, she thought with a touch of melancholy, and then banished it ruthlessly. Pictures were what she needed, she decided—pictures and perhaps some flowers to brighten up the dismal little cell. Maybe a pot plant.

She went and made herself a cup of tea in the communal kitchen, added a kettle to the list of necessities and curled up against her pillows with a book.

She couldn’t concentrate. All she could see was her new boss’s weary eyes, and osteomyelitis simply couldn’t handle the competition.

She put the book down.

So, he was divorced—and living alone, if he’d had to ring someone to look after his daughter. What a waste, she thought, and then chastised herself for making assumptions. Maybe he liked being alone?

And pigs flew. Nobody liked being alone. Sometimes it was better than an existing bad relationship, but given the choice she imagined most people would choose a good relationship over none at all.

Given the choice. Sometimes, of course, one wasn’t given the choice. She wouldn’t be alone by choice, but fate had played dirty tricks on her and she had ended up alone, in this dismal little room—

She snorted in disgust. The room was temporary, just until she had convinced Mr Ryder that it would be a good idea to take her on permanently. Then she’d get herself a nice little flat and start acquiring some little bits and pieces.

If Mr Ryder took her on.

She shook her head. ‘Mr Ryder’ was so formal. She wondered if he would expect her to call him that, or if ‘sir’ would do …!

Robert.

She tried the name, and decided it suited him. Solid, dependable, utterly trustworthy. No frills or flounces, just a good, honest name that could have been made for him.

She wondered if he resented the responsibilities that had been thrust on him, and decided that even if he did he would never admit it, not even to himself.

Her brother had resented the responsibility of his younger sister. He loved her, but providing her with a home for the past ten years had taken its toll of their relationship. And now his wife was on the scene …

With a sigh she picked up her book again and tried to read, but her eyelids were drooping. She took off her skirt, slipped under the quilt and settled down for a rest. She wouldn’t sleep for long. Inevitably her bleeper would squawk and she would have to get up again.

Her breathing slowed, her body quickly adapting to rest. After years of practice it had learned to snatch sleep when it was offered, and cat-napping was a gift she treasured. Within seconds, she was asleep.

Robeert knuckled the sleep from his eyes with one hand, the other clutching the receiver as he struggled to cast aside the dream. ‘Have you called Dr Bradley?’ Hell, even saying her name made it worse—

‘Yes, she’s with the patient now. She asked if I could contact you and get you to come in. I’m sorry.’

Robert sighed. ‘I’ll be right over,’ he promised, and throwing the bedclothes off he pulled on his clothes and went into his daughter’s room.

‘Are you going out?’ she mumbled.

‘Yes—sorry. Will you be all right?’

‘Mmm.’

He dropped a kiss on her cheek, ran downstairs and picked up his jacket and keys on the way out of the door. As he drove the short distance to the hospital, he ran the case through his mind again.

It was the man with the damaged lower leg, the one with the old unhealed fracture who had been hit sideways by a car the night before. They had operated just before lunch and put a fixator on the tibia to support the fractures externally, but the leg had swollen and was now apparently showing symptoms of compartment syndrome, where the sheath surrounding each of the muscles refused to allow sufficient swelling and so caused severe constriction to the muscles and underlying tissues, with resulting serious consequences if they were not rapidly decompressed.

He would require a minor operation called a fasciotomy, literally a slit cut in each of the muscle sheaths to allow for the swelling—assuming that Frankie had got it right.

Dr Bradley. He must remember to call her that. The temptation to call her Frankie was mixed up with all sorts of other forbidden temptations that he didn’t even dare consider except in his dreams—and they, he thought disgustedly, should be censored.

He turned into the hospital car park, pulled up in his usual space and headed for the ward. She was there, in the office with the night sister, her head thrown back and a delicious, deep chuckle bubbling up from her throat.

She turned to him with a smile and said, ‘Hi,’ in her warm honey voice, and his pulse rate soared as the dream came screaming back full force. Damn.

He ignored his body, tugged on his white coat from behind the door and rammed his hands deep into the pockets.

‘So, what’s the situation?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Mr Lee’s leg. It’s started to swell more, and he’s now got a tense calf with loss of extension and diminished sensation in the foot.’

‘Damn. What have you done?’

‘Elevated it, ice-packed the muscles and alerted Theatre. He’s had a premed and he’s ready when you are.’

‘You’re confident of the diagnosis?’

One eyebrow arched delicately, and she stood up and gestured to the door. ‘He’s your patient—I’d be delighted for you to check.’

He grunted and followed her to the patient’s bedside. Mr Lee was lying with his leg raised in a ‘gutter’, packed round with soft wadding to support it off the calf, and Robert could see the tension on the skin. The patient was restless, clearly in pain and the foot was looking discoloured. The calf was certainly swollen all round, and there was no question about the diagnosis.

He swore, softly and comprehensively, and then met Frankie’s eyes.

‘Well done, Dr Bradley,’ he murmured. ‘Ever done a fasciotomy?’

She shook her head, the soft, fine hair swinging round her face. ‘Not yet,’ she said, and the faintest smile touched her eyes.

It was the middle of the night, he was exhausted, and yet still she made him want to smile back. He felt his eyes crinkle. ‘Well, as the saying goes, there’s no time like the present. You didn’t really want to go back to that cold, lumpy bed, did you?’

This time she really smiled. ‘Actually I was getting used to it,’ she said ruefully.

‘Tough,’ he growled, but he was unable to stop the quirk of his lips, and she smiled again.

‘Come on, then, let’s go and do this fasciotomy.’

She was a willing pupil, he had to admit. What his grandfather would have called ‘a quick study’. She did only what she was told to do, exactly as she was told to do it, and with skill and sensitivity, as if the scalpel were simply an extension of her fingers. Immediately she released the affected compartments the muscle bulged through the space, colour and warmth returned to the foot and the situation improved.

‘Excellent,’ he murmured. ‘Right, he can go back down as soon as he’s recovered from the anaesthetic. I’ll be in the hospital for a while—I want to see him after he’s come round and make sure we’ve done enough.’

He stripped off his gloves and gown, dropped them in the bin and turned to Frankie. ‘You did a really good job. Well done.’

Wonders would never cease. The man who hadn’t wanted to give her the job dishing out such high praise? Frankie was faintly dumbstruck. She peeled off her gloves and gown, dropped them in the bin on top of his and marvelled at her beginner’s luck.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘It wasn’t really difficult.’

‘No, but it’s still possible to make a mess of it.’

She forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘I said I wouldn’t let you down.’

He smiled, a slow, lazy smile that made her heart thump a little harder. ‘So you did. Coffee?’

‘Tea?’

‘Whatever. Shall we go to the canteen? They usually have various things to eat and I’m starving.’

‘I’ve got a fruit cake,’ she said rashly.

‘Home-made?’

She should have denied it, but his eyes were so hopeful, as if it had been years—possibly forever—since anyone had made him a cake.

‘Yes, home-made,’ she said gently. ‘It was my Christmas cake, but it never got iced. There didn’t seem to be a lot of point—I was on duty so much coming up to Christmas that I didn’t have time to ice it, and I was too busy over Christmas to eat it, so it didn’t really matter. It was a bit ambitious bothering to make it anyway, I suppose.’

He eyed her curiously. ‘Didn’t you go home for Christmas?’

She thought of Jeff and his new bride, wrapped up in each other to the exclusion of everyone and everything else. She certainly hadn’t been wanted.

Her smile probably didn’t reach her eyes, but she tried. ‘I don’t have a family home any more.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He sounded contrite, as if he regretted hurting her, and suddenly she wanted to comfort him, to explain that it was all right, it didn’t matter any more, it couldn’t hurt her now.

It was too soon, though. She didn’t know him. Maybe later, after a few weeks or months—if she was still here …

‘So, do you want to risk it?’

His eyes searched her face and he grinned fleetingly. ‘What do you think?’

She laughed. ‘Come on, then, or we’ll be having it for breakfast.’

They walked in silence through the hospital corridors to her room, and she opened the door with a flourish. ‘Voilà! Welcome to my humble abode.’

He went through the door and peered around. ‘God, it is, isn’t it? I’d forgotten what hospital rooms are like.’

She laughed and closed the door quietly. ‘Aren’t you the lucky one? Make yourself at home; I’ll get the drinks. Tea or coffee?’

‘Oh—coffee, please.’ He was thumbing through the textbook she had been unable to concentrate on, and she slipped past him, made the drinks and returned to find him sitting on the end of the bed, one leg hitched up and the book lying open on his lap, asleep.

‘I found it riveting too.’

He opened one eye and peered at her, then a slow smile tilted his mouth. ‘Sorry. It’s been a rather hectic weekend.’ He snapped the book shut and sat up, taking the coffee from her. ‘So, where’s this fabled cake?’

She rummaged under the bed and came out with a cake tin, worried now that it would taste awful and disappoint him.

‘I hope you’re not expecting Fortnum & Mason’s standard,’ she joked, stabbing a knife into the centre of the untouched cake and chopping out a wedge.

He winced. ‘I’m glad I’ve already seen you operate, otherwise that would really have worried me!’

She chuckled and handed him the crumbling slice. ‘Sorry there aren’t any plates—here, have the lid.’

He took the lid and sniffed the cake. ‘It smells wonderful.’

‘Brandy. Go on, then, try it.’

‘What about you?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘I want to see if you die first.’ He grinned and took a bite, then shut his eyes and groaned, keeling slowly over onto the bed.

‘Ha ha.’

He opened one eye and mumbled something totally unintelligible, swallowed and tried again. ‘I said it’s worth dying for.’

Quite unexpectedly she felt her cheeks heat. It was one thing to be complimented for her work, and quite another when his remarks were personal—and somehow the fact that she had made the cake and he was impressed was very personal, almost intimate.

She was disgusted at how pleased she was, and yet she couldn’t hold down the happiness. It was absurd that it should matter so much, she thought, and hacked off another wedge for herself.

He was right, though—it was good, even if she said so herself. She finished her chunk, licked her fingers and looked up to find him watching her, a strange expression on his face.

Her breath lodged in her throat and she coughed slightly, looking away from those piercing blue-grey eyes. ‘More?’ she said, and her voice wavered, to her disgust.

‘Um—no, thanks. I thought I’d just go back to the ward and check on Mr Lee, then I ought to go back to Jane.’

He stood up, suddenly big in the tiny room, and she put down her cup and stood too. ‘Thanks for coming in.’

He laughed without humour. ‘I should be thanking you for covering for me so I could sort Jane out, not the other way round. Oh, well, I’ll see you in the morning. Thanks for the coffee and the cake—you can save me a slice for another time.’

He was right beside her now, just inches away, and he paused and lifted a hand.

‘You’ve got a crumb on your lip,’ he murmured, and she felt his fingertip like a butterfly’s wing against her mouth, easing away the crumb. It lingered, just a heartbeat longer than was necessary, and suddenly the butterfly’s wing burned against her skin.

Fire shot through her, and as their eyes locked for a long, aching moment she wondered if he was going to kiss her. Then his hand dropped, and with a muffled sigh he opened the door and was gone.

Robert wasn’t enjoying this telephone call, but it had to be made. However, he didn’t even try to keep the hard edge out of his voice. ‘I thought I made it perfectly clear that during the school holidays you wouldn’t entertain your lovers.’

‘Oh, Robert, for God’s sake, it was New Year’s Eve! Everybody entertains!’

‘I didn’t,’ he growled. ‘I was at work, earning your maintenance.’

‘Jane’s maintenance,’ his ex-wife reminded him with a bitter cut to her voice. ‘If you remember you declined to support me.’

Robert sighed. Not this again. He refused to get drawn in. ‘She tells me they were “doing drugs”.’

‘What a revolting expression, darling! Just a little smoke—’

‘I don’t care how you phrase it, Jackie, I am not having my daughter exposed to drugs and debauchery!’

There was a mock sigh from the other end. ‘Here we go—trotting out the moral outrage. Just because you don’t know how to enjoy yourself any more—’

‘I don’t consider getting drunk and smoking cannabis with a lover in front of my daughter enjoying myself, and I’m appalled that you should. I’m sorry, Jackie, but you’ve gone too far this time. Jane’s living with me now, for good. I’ll contact my solicitor and sort out visitation rights, but she’s slept the night in your home for the last time.’

He could feel the tension coming off her. ‘Robert, darling, you’re overreacting! I promise it won’t happen again—’

‘No, it won’t. I’ll arrange to collect all her things this weekend—’

‘But Robert, please, think about it! You can’t just do this—’

‘I can and I am. You’ve had plenty of chances, Jackie.’

‘But the maintenance …’

His hand tightened on the receiver and the plastic creaked ominously. ‘To hell with the maintenance. As you’ve just pointed out, it wasn’t for you anyway, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t suffer.’

He cradled the poor unfortunate receiver with more force than was necessary and flexed his fingers absently. He must be mad. How was he going to look after Jane? She had no friends in the area, and he was working all day and often at the weekends.

Had he been hasty?

He rammed his fingers through his hair and swore, softly and comprehensively. Would it never end?

He heard a sound behind him and turned his head slowly to see his daughter, clad in her nightshirt, leaning against the doorpost and eyeing him warily as he sprawled in the big old chair.

‘Mum?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I’ve just told her you’re living with me now.’

Jane hovered, chewing her lip unhappily. ‘Are you sure you want me?’ she asked tentatively. ‘I make your life so complicated.’

He couldn’t deny it. His life had been complicated by her presence ever since she had been conceived fourteen years before, when he was just a green medical student with more hormones than sense, but want her? Oh, yes …

He held out his arms. ‘Come here, sweetheart.’

She watched him for a second, then shrugged away from the doorpost and crossed to him, curling up on his lap the way she had as a little girl, her head nestled on his shoulder, her fragrant hair tickling his nose, her light frame angular now and leggy like a foal’s.

He snuggled her deeper into his arms, rested his chin against her head and sighed. ‘Love you, JJ.’

‘Love you too, Dad,’ she mumbled, and he felt her slim arms creep round his chest and squeeze.

Anger rose in him, anger at his ex-wife for so callously and selfishly following her own path to the detriment of Jane’s happiness, anger too at her money-grubbing plea about the maintenance.

‘Don’t be angry with her, Dad. She can’t help it. It’s just the way she is.’

He sighed and stroked the sweetly scented hair. ‘It just makes me angry when she hurts you.’

Jane sat up on his lap and shook her head. ‘She doesn’t hurt me.’

‘She disappoints you.’

Jane nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what? Not choosing my mother more carefully?’ She ruffled his hair affectionately. ‘Don’t be silly. Are you going to work?’

‘I have to. I’ve got a new registrar and she got flung in a bit at the deep end yesterday.’

‘Mmm. Frankie. I like her; she’s got nice eyes.’

His mouth quirked in a fleeting smile. ‘Yes—yes, she has. She’s probably got bags under them by now. I’d better go and give her the day off, I think.’

He patted Jane’s shoulder, and she slid off his lap and stretched, her nightshirt rising up to show endless skinny legs. She’s grown even more, he realised with a start, and she’s turning into a woman. Dear God, can I cope?

He stood up and hugged her briefly, dropped a kiss on her soft hair and let her go. ‘Will you be all right?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Dad, for God’s sake! I got here from London all right.’

‘Yes, well, we won’t talk about that. There’s food in the fridge and Mrs Bailey will be in later to clean up a bit and cook supper for us.’

‘I could do that.’

He chuckled. ‘Jane, when you were last here a week ago you couldn’t even make your own bed. I think we’ll let Mrs Bailey do it—maybe she’ll teach you how to cook if you ask her nicely.’

Jane rolled her eyes again. ‘Dad, I know how to cook. What do you think Mum eats in the holidays when her boyfriends aren’t allowed to take her out for dinner?’

He smiled, but inwardly he seethed again that she should be so cynical so young. Damn Jackie. When he caught up with her he’d have a few choice words to say, and out of JJ’s earshot, too, so he didn’t have to pull his punches.

‘I’ll ring you later.’

‘Daddy, I’ll be fine.’

He grinned at her. ‘OK; love. Take care.’

‘You too.’ She reached up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. ‘Have a good day. Say thank you to Frankie for me for covering for you.’

Frankie was shattered.

It was easy enough to keep up the cheerful, determined ‘I can do it’ front while Robert was around. When she was on her own, however, doubts began to assail her.

His praise on her first day had helped enormously, but all the time she was working she was desperately conscious of being under scrutiny. Not that that mattered. She didn’t worry about being watched—it was a valuable safety net for the patients during her learning process—but she was beginning to wish she hadn’t made the suggestion about being on trial.

After less than a week she was finding the process unbelievably tiring, and every time he moved out of sight her cheery smile slipped.

Apparently it didn’t go unnoticed. She was sitting in the staff coffee-lounge one lunchtime after a gruelling clinic that had had all the subtlety of a finals viva, sipping strong coffee and chewing methodically but without enthusiasm on a Danish pastry, when a shadow fell across her lap.

‘Mind if I join you?’

She looked up to find a man of about her own age, dressed in theatre pyjamas, his dark hair rumpled and untidy, a cautious half-smile on his generous mouth.

‘Do,’ she answered. He looked friendly and approachable and not about to pounce, she thought with relief. She was too damn tired and strung out to deal with Tarzan today.

‘You’re new, aren’t you?’ he asked, settling himself down with his anti-static boots propped on the table and the coffee-cup balanced on his lap.

‘Yes. I’ve been here since Monday.’

His grey eyes assessed her thoughtfully and the cautious smile touched his lips again. ‘Were you tired when you arrived, or has this place got to you already?’

She laughed. ‘A bit of each. I did a silly thing. I talked myself into a job on a trial basis, and now I feel I can’t breathe spontaneously without it being noted down.’

He chuckled. ‘You’re Robert Ryder’s junior reg, aren’t you? I gather he’s excellent.’

‘Yes, he is. Rather too excellent. The shortfall is all the more obvious,’ she said with wry self-mockery.

The young doctor laughed softly and leant forward, his hand outstretched. ‘I’m Gavin Jones—Oliver Henderson’s junior reg.’

She shook the firm, dry hand. ‘Frankie Bradley.’

‘Frankie—that’s unusual.’

‘Frances really,’ she said with a little shudder.

Gavin smiled. ‘Frances is fine but Frankie suits you better. So—you’re on trial. Wow. I remember when I made a foul-up as a houseman and Ross Hamilton came down on me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t breathe after that either without him watching me!’

‘What did you do?’

‘Took out an appendix on a girl with Munchausen’s—but you’ll be safe there. It doesn’t happen in orthopaedics. Either it’s broken or it isn’t!’

She chuckled. ‘I hope you’re right. I’ll probably end up recommending arthroscopy on someone’s knee when there’s nothing at all wrong with it.’

He drained his coffee-cup and put it down on the table. ‘Um—I don’t suppose you fancy a drink tonight?’

The idea was suddenly immensely appealing. ‘That would be lovely,’ she told him, a smile softening her tired eyes.

‘Seven? I’ll pick you up—I take it you’re living in?’

She nodded wryly. ‘Are you?’

‘For my sins. I’m only just back here—I’ve been away for a while as a registrar in Cambridge—and I haven’t got a flat sorted out yet. I don’t think it’ll be long, though. Those rooms are the pits.’

She laughed with him, and watched as he left the room. She was still smiling as her bleeper went, and with a sigh she got up and went over to the phone.

‘Dr Bradley,’ she told the switchboard.

‘Putting you through,’ the voice replied, and suddenly there was a young, hesitant girl on the line.

‘Um—is that Frankie?’

‘Yes, it is. Is that Jane Ryder?’

‘Yeah—listen, can you do me a favour? It’s my father’s birthday today and I’m cooking him a special meal tonight, and I thought it would be nice if you could join us. It’d make it more of a celebration, somehow, and give me a chance to thank you for bailing Dad out so he could fetch me from the station and bring me home. So,’ she said, all in a rush and running out of breath, ‘will you come?’

She sounded so hopeful, and Frankie didn’t have the heart to disappoint her. Besides which, it would be an ideal opportunity to get to know her enigmatic and very reserved boss a little better. She could always put Gavin off for another time.

‘Yes, of course I’ll come.’

‘Are you sure? It’s probably the last thing you want to do—’

‘Nonsense,’ Frankie interrupted. ‘I’ll look forward to it. What time?’

‘Seven-thirty? Oh, and do you like chicken curry?’

‘Ah. Um, Jane, I’m vegetarian.’

There was a horrified silence. ‘So I guess that means you don’t like chicken,’ she said eventually.

‘Look, if it messes things up for you I don’t need to come, Jane.’

‘But I want you to!’ the girl wailed.

‘Then I will. Don’t worry about feeding me—I can have all the accompaniments.’

‘Oh. Well, I could do you some veg in a curry sauce—would that do?’

‘That would be lovely,’ she said firmly. ‘Don’t worry about me; cook what your father likes. It’s his birthday. How do I get there?’

Jane gave her the directions—somewhat haphazard, but hopefully she could unravel them in the dark.

‘What’s the phone number, in case I get lost?’

Jane rattled off the number, then added, ‘By the way, don’t tell him—it’s a surprise.’

It was raining, just to add insult to injury. Gavin had been understanding—to a point. ‘Had a better offer?’ he’d ribbed gently.

‘I’m sorry,’ she’d apologised. ‘Perhaps another time?’

His smile had been wry. ‘Yeah—maybe. Have a good evening.’

She felt she’d disappointed him, but there was no point in encouraging him if he had any ideas about their relationship. He was a nice man, but he didn’t do anything for her—unlike Robert—

‘Damn!’ She slithered to an undignified halt and reversed back, peering at the road sign. Was this it? No. Damn again. She drove on till she found a pub, then went in and asked the barman the way.

He yelled across the bar, ‘Hey, Fred, how d’you get to Ryder’s old place? Is that first left or second?’

‘Doc Ryder?’ Fred shrugged away from the wall by the dartboard, picked his teeth thoughtfully as he sauntered towards them and eyed Frankie with interest. ‘Goin’ there, are you?’

‘If I can find it.’

He nodded. ‘Back down to the bottom of the hill, turn right, go about two miles, first left, along about couple hundred yards or so on the right. Thatched place, it is. Old Tudor job—white gates.’

All eyes were on her, as if a woman visiting Robert Ryder was a rare and notable occurrence.

She forced a smile. ‘Thank you. I’m sure I’ll find it now.’ She made for the door, and was just opening it when Fred hailed her.

‘Hear his daughter’s home.’

She turned back slightly. ‘Yes.’

‘Good job, too. The mother’s not worth her weight in chicken sh—ah, manure.’

Amidst the ribald laughter she made her escape from the pub, running across the potholed car park in the slashing rain.

Just before she reached her car she put her foot into a pothole, jarred her ankle and splashed muddy water all the way up her clean tights. Swearing comprehensively and most satisfyingly under her breath, she slammed the car door, started the engine and drove back down the hill, along a miserable, rutted lane for two miles or more, until she was sure that Fred had got it wrong.

Then suddenly there was a little turning, an even smaller road, and on the right a low, thatched house with lights blazing a welcome from all the windows. There was an old-fashioned lamppost at the entrance, and in its warm glow she saw the name on the opened gate.

Freedom Farm …