Читать книгу Love Without Measure - Caroline Anderson - Страница 4

ANNA heard his laugh first, a deep, rich chuckle that made the corners of her mouth curl involuntarily and softened the lines of tiredness around her eyes.

Laughter could convey many things, she thought—happiness, amusement, joy, even scorn and derision. This man’s laugh was sheer enjoyment, full of warmth and humour. It was the laugh of a man glad to be alive, and she sensed he was also comfortable, a man at ease with himself and the world.

It was also a big laugh, and she knew before she turned the corner that his body would match it. Even so, her first sight of him made her breath catch, and she faltered.

He was tall, his body lean and rangy, with wide, square shoulders and long legs; he was leaning against the wall, his white coat held back by the hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, amply displaying his narrow hips and taut, flat stomach. One knee was bent and the sole of his shoe was propped casually against the wall at mid-calf.

He was deep in conversation with Jack Lawrence, the A and E unit consultant, and as she watched his mouth opened again and his head tipped back. The laugh rippled round her again, and she felt a shiver start deep inside. Who was he?

The new senior registrar, she realised. Patrick something. At least he looked confident. They had been plagued by a recent houseman who had been a total pain, and losing their previous and excellent SR Ben Bradshaw to an unknown quantity could have been very bad news. Hopefully this guy would pass muster, as a doctor anyway. As a man, there was no question.

She forced herself to walk towards them, confused by the sudden speeding of her heart. This was crazy—he was just a colleague! Probably, please, God, safely married like Ben.

He looked completely relaxed and thoroughly at home, which was quite remarkable considering he had only started on the unit ten minutes ago. That laugh found its way up from his throat again, teasing the air with its joyful sound. Anna’s mouth curved involuntarily.

As she approached Jack looked up with a smile and held out his arm towards her, drawing her into their circle.

‘Anna, I want you to meet Patrick Haddon, our new SR. Patrick, this is Staff Nurse Anna Jarvis, Kathleen’s second in command.’

He shrugged away from the wall, standing straight at last, so she could see how large he really was, and took his hands out of his pockets as he turned towards her.

The light caught the dull gleam of a gold band on the ring-finger of his left hand, and her breath eased out in a sigh of relief—relief that felt curiously like disappointment. He was married. She was conscious of the silly smile still lurking round her mouth, and forced it into a smile of welcome. His own mouth tipped into an answering grin, and she felt something kick under her ribs. ‘Hi,’ she managed, a touch breathlessly.

She took the proferred hand, noting almost absently its dry warmth and firm grip. It was his eyes which had her attention, though; they were a warm, deep brown, rich and full of humour, and yet still gentle. She had the feeling he could see into her soul. It was a most uncomfortable sensation, and yet curiously she didn’t feel threatened. It was only uncomfortable because it was so unexpected.

‘Hello, Anna,’ he said quietly, and his voice seemed to resonate deep inside her, rippling out into the cold, quiet reaches of her loneliness.

No! He was married! She dropped his hand, the contact suddenly too much to cope with. ‘Welcome aboard, Dr Haddon,’ she replied, managing to find the social niceties despite the strange sensations in the pit of her stomach. She turned towards the other man. ‘Jack, have you seen Kathleen?’

‘She’s in the end cubicle with a fracture. If you go and give her a hand I’ll be along in a minute, once I’ve sorted Patrick out.’

‘Thanks.’ She turned and walked away, conscious of those searching eyes following her. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she had to force herself not to run.

As she turned into the cubicle she risked a glance back. He was still watching her, his eyes steady, a thoughtful look on his face.

She went behind the curtain, her heart thumping. Not a flirt, she prayed. Please, God, not a flirt. Sexual harassment was the one thing Anna hated above all else, particularly when it came in the form of a flirting playboy, and most especially when he was married. She found herself feeling suddenly sorry for the wife she had dreamed up for him.

How must it feel to catch a man like that just to discover he was a will-o-the-wisp? She dismissed the memory of those eyes, far from flirting, just gently assessing, and seeing far too much for her peace of mind. She would think of him as a flirt. That way he would be easily dismissed, pushed to the back of her mind, not worth the time of day.

Kathleen looked up from the trousers she was easing off and smiled. ‘Good morning, Staff.’

‘Morning, Sister. Do you need a hand?’

‘Oh, yes, please. This is Mr James. He fell off the kerb, didn’t you?’

The man nodded and winced. ‘Right down a pothole. Teach me to look where I’m going, won’t it? Are you sure you shouldn’t cut those trousers?’

Kathleen laughed. ‘And have you sueing me for a new pair? Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.’

‘You’d better be,’ he muttered, grim-lipped, and subsided on to the pillow with a groan. Together Anna and Kathleen eased the trousers down, slipped his good foot out, and carefully removed them from the damaged one without even making him wince.

Perversely he looked disappointed, and Anna almost laughed.

The skin was very scraped, and Anna could see his foot was lying at a strange angle. Kathleen straightened up and smiled.

‘I’ll get a doctor to come and have a look at you, Mr James, while Staff Nurse Jarvis cleans you up a bit more.’

‘They’re in the corridor. Jack’s just coming,’ Anna told her, and Kathleen nodded and went out quietly through the curtain.

‘This looks very sore,’ Anna said as she pulled on gloves and cleaned the skin a little. ‘Am I hurting you?’

‘It is rather tender,’ he said a bit stiffly, and Anna stopped as soon as she had wiped away the worst of the blood and dirt from around his graze. It was obvious that the fibula was broken, so he would probably need an anaesthetic to set the bone and there was no point in torturing him for the hell of it. Whoever examined him could see enough now.

The curtain swished beside her, and she felt a shiver run over her skin. She didn’t need to look to know it wasn’t Jack Lawrence. Gorgeous though he was, his magnetism was strictly limited to Kathleen. This man, though …

‘Mr James? I’m Dr Haddon. I gather you’ve hurt you leg—mind if I have a look?’

‘Be my guest.’

He bent his head over the leg, checked the foot for warmth and sensation, and then tutted quietly. ‘It looks a bit nasty, doesn’t it? I think we need an X-ray first, to assess the extent of the damage, but I’m pretty sure you’ve just broken the bone at the side of your leg—the fibula. You may have damaged some of the bones in your foot as well, but the X-ray will pick that up. Whatever, you’ll need an operation to fix that bone properly, I’m afraid.’

The man sighed heavily. ‘Can’t you just put a plaster on it?’

Patrick shook his head. ‘Sorry. It won’t heal unless we can pull the bone-ends into alignment, and that will need surgery, I’m almost sure.’

‘Damn. I’m supposed to be flying to America tomorrow.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, you won’t be going—not for a good while.’

He swore, softly but fluently. ‘I have to go,’ he repeated.

‘Sorry, old chap, that’s the way it goes,’ Patrick told him calmly.

It didn’t calm him noticeably. ‘I’ve got my mobile phone here—do you mind if I make some calls while I wait?’ he asked, already flicking up the aerial.

‘Be our guest,’ Patrick told him, and, making sure the sides were up on the examination couch, Anna followed him out to fill in the X-ray request forms and get Patrick to authorise them.

Behind them they could hear Mr James’s voice on the phone.

Tallen off the pavement and broken my goddamn leg—what? I said I fell off the bloody pavement!’ he yelled.

Patrick grinned at Anna. Oops. I think our business executive’s heading for a mid-life crisis,’ he said softly, and she chuckled despite her intentions to have nothing to do with him.

He followed her into the office, perched on the edge of the desk so that his lean, well-muscled thigh was just inches from her hand, and watched as she made a total foul up of the first form.

‘Damn,’ she muttered, and, screwing it up, she lobbed it towards the bin and missed.

‘Calm down. You’re getting like Alan James.’

She snorted, but tackled the next form slowly. ‘There—could you sign, please?’

His hands were fascinating—tanned, the backs lightly scattered with dark hair, the fingers strong and straight. She forced herself to look at the ring on his left hand, to remind herself that he was married.

That was when she saw the scar, a jagged white line that ran from thumb to wrist. She found herself touching it before she knew what she was doing.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

He glanced at it dismissively. ‘I don’t know. I was helping at an earthquake, pulling rubble off the remains of a school.’

‘An earthquake?’

‘Mmm. Here, he can go through now.’

She took the form, clearly dismissed, and went and wheeled Mr James through to X-ray, trying not to let idle curiosity distract her from her job. Except that earthquakes in this country were rarer than hen’s teeth …

Mr James was still on the phone. Grudgingly he put it down and subsided to a steady grumble for the X-ray. Sure enough, it was a clean fracture of the fibula with no other damage to the foot, but it would need plating to draw it back into alignment.

As she wheeled him back to the cubicle Nick Davidson, the orthopaedic SR on take, appeared and walked towards them with a grin.

‘Is this my patient?’

‘Yup—here are the plates, and this is Mr James.’

Nick introduced himself and shook the man’s hand. ‘My name’s Davidson. I’m the orthopaedic surgeon who’s going to be fixing this. Shall we have a look?’

He thrust the plates up into the light-box and grunted, then pointed to the broken ends of the bone, explaining to Mr James what he was going to do. ‘When did you last eat?’

‘Last night.’

‘No breakfast?’

‘I never have time.’

‘Good—this once. When did you drink last?’

‘Coffee at eight before I left home.’

Nick glanced at his watch. ‘Nine thirty-five. OK, we’ll take you up to the ward and prep you, and I’ll tack you on the end of my list. You’ll go to Theatre just before lunch, OK?’

‘If it’s really necessary,’ he grumbled.

‘It’s really necessary.’

He snorted. ‘I’ve got more calls to make—can I have a private room?’

‘Only if there’s a single room free at the time. Ask the staff on the ward.’

He left, and Mr James stared after him. ‘Is that it?’

Anna was astonished. ‘What did you want him to say?’

‘I want to know when I’ll be up and about—when can I leave hospital?’

She stuck her head out of the curtains and called after Nick. ‘Mr James wants to know when he can leave hospital.’

Nick turned, walking backwards down the corridor as he spoke. ‘Whenever he feels ready,’ he called back. ‘I suspect about a week. Then he’ll need two weeks at least with it up, and another week or two slowly mobilising. Five to six before he’s walking regularly with crutches. And no, he can’t fly tomorrow.’

She went back into the cubicle. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘Bloody ridiculous,’ he growled. ‘Is he a consultant?’

Anna took a steadying breath. ‘No, he’s a senior registrar.’

‘I want to see the big cheese—I’m not going to be fobbed off with some incompetent junior doctor.’

She hung on to her temper with difficulty. ‘I can assure you, Mr Davidson isn’t a junior doctor, nor is he incompetent! His next post will be a consultancy—probably in the fairly near future. And he’s more than qualified to mend your ankle!’

Mr James was stubbornly unrepentant. ‘I want it done privately,’ he stated. ‘I don’t have time to mess about like this.’

She eyed him with disfavour. ‘Could you explain something to me? Would you tell me how paying for it is going to make your leg heal any quicker?’

‘I might get better treatment,’ he grumbled. ‘At least a real specialist. I can’t afford to take weeks off,’ he added petulantly.

‘You should have thought of that when you weren’t looking where you were going, shouldn’t you?’ she said sweetly, and with that she swished out into the corridor smack into a laughing Patrick Haddon.

She glared at him, but he winked and took her arm, leading her away.

‘Calm down,’ he soothed, and led her into the staff-room, pressing a cup of coffee into her hand. ‘Drink this. There’s nothing requiring your immediate attention, so take a little time out and relax.’

She snorted. ‘Pompous ass. I don’t suppose there’s the slightest chance he’ll get pneumonia from the anaesthetic?’

Patrick laughed again, his eyes creased with delight. ‘You’re a wicked woman.’

‘Only when provoked, and boy, did that man provoke me!’ She sipped her coffee, then sighed. ‘Oh, this is luxury. What a nasty shock, coming back to that after a wonderful weekend!’

‘What do you expect—gratitude? This is the great British public. We’re here to serve them, and do it on time, regardless of what might have just gone on behind the scenes.’

She stared at him. ‘You sound really bitter.’

‘Do I?’ He gave a quick grin. ‘Sorry. I’ve been in Africa for the last two years. They queue up there for days to see you, and never complain. Mostly they’re too weak, but they’re pathetically grateful for any slight kindness. It’s very humbling.’

The weary smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Sorry. Don’t let me get on my hobby-horse. I’m back here now, and I should just accept the absurd plethora of medical equipment and facilities instead of begrudging it to these miserable ingrates.’

His smile robbed his words of any offence, and Anna found herself even more curious about him. If he felt so passionately about Africa, why come home? Now was not the time to ask him, though, because he was still speaking, asking for her help.

‘Sit down for a minute,’ he suggested. ‘I could do with being filled in on procedure, names, places—that sort of thing. Who do I call, who do I avoid, who’s got a tetchy temper?—apart from you, of course.’

His smile took the criticism out of his words, and she found herself smiling back.

‘I’m normally very calm, but when someone questions a colleague’s competence, and says they’d get better treatment if they paid for it, I get very, very cross.’

‘Let him pay. It relieves the stress on the hospital’s funds. Anyway, you shouldn’t get so worked up. You’ll get ulcers.’

‘No, I won’t. Not if I haven’t got Helicobacter pylori.’

‘Smart-mouth.’

There was no malice in his remark, and they shared a smile.

‘Thanks for the coffee.’

She dropped into a chair and sighed. The weekend had been hectic, and already seemed a long way away. Flissy had been dancing in her ballet class, and Anna had had to dress her and pile her wispy hair up into a bun, and then watch the tiny little scrap trip and dither her way across the room, pretending to be a butterfly.

A virtuoso performance it wasn’t, but it had reduced Anna to a sniffling, pink-eyed heap. Pride was a ridiculous thing, she thought.

‘What are you thinking about?’

She blinked. Oh—nothing. Something that happened at the weekend, that’s all.’

‘It must have been pretty good—you were all misty-eyed.’

She laughed self-consciously, not ready to tell this stranger about her little Flissy. Men had a way of judging a single mother, and Anna wasn’t ready to be judged by this man. Not judged and found wanting.

‘It was good,’ she said, and deliberately changed the subject. ‘So, tell me about Africa. Was that where the earthquake was?’

A shadow crossed his eyes. ‘No,’ he said, effectively cutting off the conversation.

She blinked. So he, too, had things he wasn’t prepared to talk about.

She studied her cup, swirling the dregs of her coffee round and wondering why he was suddenly so remote and cut off. Had someone he loved died in the earthquake? Perhaps a wife or child? Oh, God, not a child! He’d said it was a school …

‘You didn’t lose someone—not your child?’ she asked, unable to help herself.

He met her eyes, his own revealing a flash of pain. ‘No,’ he agreed quietly. ‘Not my child.’

But someone. What was the saying about fools rushing in? Her shoulders drooped. ‘Look, I’m sorry I dragged the whole thing up—’

She jerked to her feet, almost dropping her cup back on the table, and fled.

She heard him call her name, but she didn’t stop. She went out to the front desk, glanced round, and picked up the notes for a patient who had just arrived.

‘Mrs Lucas? Would you like to come with me, please?’

He caught up with her at lunchtime, when she was just grabbing ten minutes for another coffee and a biscuit.

‘Is that all you’re having?’ he asked in disbelief.

‘I don’t eat much during the day,’ she told him, unprepared to get into discussion about it.

‘You can’t work as hard as you have been on that. Come and have some lunch with me—we never did have that conversation. I’ll offend someone mortally, and it will be your fault. Do you really want that on your conscience?’

His smile was warm and teasing. He was clearly quite unbothered about offending anyone. He wasn’t the offensive sort. He also wasn’t the sort to be thwarted.

‘Come on, while it’s quiet.’

She shook her head, reminding herself that he was married. ‘No. I really don’t want to go to the canteen.’

‘Then it will come to you. Wait here.’

He left the room, his long legs eating up the corridor. She heard the quiet swish of the door as he left the department, and, shutting her eyes, she leant her head back with a sigh. She felt like King Canute—totally helpless in the face of such stubborn determination. It would be easier to give in, but she didn’t want to. That would give him the upper hand, and absolutely the last thing she needed was to be bullied by a man, especially somebody else’s husband …

‘You sound tired.’

She opened her eyes. ‘Hello, Kath. No, I’m not tired, I’m saving my energy. Our Dr Haddon has decided I need to eat more. I think I’m about to be force-fed.’

Kath laughed, the action declaring her on Patrick’s side. ‘Good job, too,’ she retorted. ‘You’re far too skinny.’ She helped herself to coffee and dropped into a chair next to Anna, kicking off her shoes and rubbing her toes. ‘So, what do you think of him?’

Anna shrugged non-committally. ‘He seems very competent.’

Kath laughed. ‘Competent? He’s big, Anna—B-I-G. Just what we need to sit on all the drunks while we wrestle them into submission. Ben was fine, but he just didn’t have Patrick’s weight, and Jack’s not always here.’

Anna swallowed. Patrick was big, true, but size wasn’t everything. There was something else about him, a deep and intrinsic kindness that matched his bulk. He would be useful for sitting on drunks, but she could see he would have far greater uses dealing with the ordinary run-of-the-mill tragedies that passed through their department. It was the sort of intuitive, bone-deep sensitivity that would make him a wonderful lover, too, she thought, and yanked herself up hard.

No. No, no, no! Why should she think of that? She knew nothing about what made a man a lover, good or otherwise! She drank her coffee, wondering if she would have time to finish it and escape before Patrick got back. It was a long way to the canteen. If he had to queue …

She had reckoned without his long legs. She heard a door swish, a firm stride approaching, and her escape was cut off.

She sank back with a sigh, and Kath chuckled.

‘She was going to bolt—you feed her, Patrick. God knows someone needs to take care of the silly girl; she won’t do it herself.’ She stood up, slipped her feet back into her shoes and stretched. ‘You two take half an hour, crises permitting, and then Jack and I will go for lunch. OK?’

She left them, and Anna had no choice but to turn her attention back to Patrick. Her eyes settled on the mountain of sandwiches, buns and fruit he was putting on the table, and widened in amazement.

‘I hope you don’t expect me to eat all that?’ she asked, her voice rising to a squeak.

He chuckled. ‘It would probably do you good, but no. I had rather hoped you’d leave me a little. Of course, if you feel that hungry, I can always go and get more—’

‘No! Heavens, no. If I get through one sandwich I’ll be doing well.’

He snorted rudely, snapping open the plastic containers and tipping the contents out on to plates.

‘Cottage cheese and tomato, ham and lettuce, egg and cress, tandoori chicken, prawn cocktail—take your pick.’

She blinked. ‘Um—prawn?’ she ventured, finding her voice. Lord, it must have cost a fortune. She ought to offer to pay for her share …

He put two sandwiches on a plate and pushed it into her hand, then took her cup and refilled it. ‘Eat—come on,’ he nagged. ‘They’ll curl up before you get to them.’

She bit obediently into the deliciously moist sandwich, and groaned.

‘All right?’

‘Gorgeous,’ she mumbled round the prawns. It was. She took another bite, and another, unaware of Patrick’s searching gaze on her as she demolished the sandwich and started on the second half. A slow smile of satisfaction touched his eyes, then he turned his attention to his own lunch, biting deeply into his sandwich but monitoring her progress over the top. She finished, and he lowered his plate.

‘Good?’

Anna stared down at her empty plate, surprised.

‘It was—wonderful.’

‘Have another.’

She opened her mouth to refuse, but his face was implacable. Instead she gave a rueful smile, and reached for the spicy chicken.

‘That’s my favourite,’ he grumbled.

She made to put it back but he laughed. ‘I’m teasing. I like anything. You go ahead and have it.’

He picked up the other half, though, and winked at her across it. ‘You can take your pick of the rest.’

She ate it silently, pondering on her knight in shining armour. He looked about thirty-five, she thought, maybe younger, but his face had that lived-in look that had seen many sides of life, not all of them kind. The earthquake? Perhaps that had aged him. He was good-looking, though. Good bone-structure, his body broad and strong without being overly heavy. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, she thought, despite his prodigious appetite. He bit into another sandwich and glanced up, meeting her eyes. His mouth occupied, he waved instead at the food.

‘More,’ he mumbled.

‘I couldn’t.’

‘Fruit, then—or a doughnut.’

She felt herself weaken. ‘You’ve got doughnuts?’ she asked hopefully. ‘Are they warm?’

He nodded, his mouth busy again.

‘Jam?’

He nodded, the corners of his eyes crinkled with understanding.

She heard her stomach rumble. Oh, what the heck? He clearly intended to feed her till she split. She couldn’t disappoint him.

The doughnut was wonderful, light and fluffy, the jam still warm. It squirted down her chin and she laughed and reached for a tissue.

He was there first, a napkin at the ready, steadying her jaw with his other hand as he wiped the jam away. Their eyes met, and for a long and almost unbearable second she thought he was going to kiss her.

Then he sat back, cobbling up the napkin and lobbing it neatly into the bin.

Her breath eased slowly out. Had she imagined it? Oh, God.

She finished the doughnut and then wiped her fingers, reaching for her coffee with hands that were not quite steady. She cast about for another topic for her mind, and came up with money as the safest option.

‘What do I owe you for that lot?’ she asked.

He looked astonished. Owe me? Nothing.’

‘Don’t be silly, it must have cost a fortune.’

‘I think I can just about run to a few sandwiches for our first date,’ he said drily, and drained his coffee-cup while she tried to ignore the funny hiccup in her heartbeat at his use of the word ‘date’. Ridiculous. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘if you insist on going Dutch you can refill my cup, bring me a banana, and tell me everything I need to know to keep out of trouble.’

Clearly it was as far as she was going to get. ‘Are you always this stubborn and bossy?’ she asked mildly as she did as she was told.

‘Always. Thank you.’ He took the cup and set it down. ‘Now, the trade-off. Who do I have to avoid, who do I have to crawl to, what are the internal politics?’

She groaned. ‘Internal politics? I try and stay out of it. Funding, of course, is always a hassle. So far they haven’t threatened to close us down, but funding for our emergency teams going out to incidents is always a bit of a fraught issue. They say it’s very expensive, and I’m sure it is, but it’s absolutely vital that we continue to keep the service available and I’m sure in the long run we actually save money.’

He nodded. ‘Who usually goes?’

‘The most senior members of staff available to a small incident. To a major incident with multiple casualties we usually keep several senior staff here to deal with the casualties as they come in, but others, of course, go out for on-the-spot surgery and emergency resuscitation. The first job in major incidents is Triage, really, sorting the patients into priority for transfer to hospital, and that’s something we’re all very used to.’

‘Do you have a Triage system operating in the unit all the time?’ he asked.

Anna nodded. ‘Yes—it’s often me doing that. We only bother if it gets busy, but the reception staff are excellent and keep us in touch all the time with what’s coming through the door.’

Patrick stretched out, his long legs crossed at the ankle, and balanced his coffee-cup on his chest. ‘What’s the usual waiting-time?’

She laughed softly. ‘You tell me. Certainly less than several days, unlike your Africa. We try and keep it down to under half an hour, and patients are always seen by the Triage nurse within a few minutes of arrival in any case, unless we’re so quiet that they’re virtually straight in. Sometimes, though, it can be up to an hour before they get seen and that really bothers me. It’s the malingerers that mess up the system—the people that won’t go to their GP because they don’t like to bother him, or because they have to wait in the surgery, or because this is more convenient than trying to get an appointment. Last week we had a man who came in with piles.’

‘They can be very painful,’ Patrick said reasonably. ‘He might well have been worried, especially if they were bleeding.’

‘They weren’t,’ she retorted, ‘and he’d had them twenty years!’

Patrick chuckled. ‘So who had the pleasure of telling him where to go?’

‘Kathleen—and very effective she was, too! She has a pet thing about people who abuse the system. She asked him if he’d left his glasses behind, and pointed out the sign. “Have you had an accident?” she asked. “Is it an emergency?” He left quite quickly.’

‘I’ll bet. She’s a little fire-cracker, I should think.’

Anna smiled indulgently. ‘She can be. She’s also very gentle and kind.’

‘And married to the boss, of course.’

‘Oh, yes. They can be quite nauseating.’

He chuckled. ‘Really?’

‘Really, although you’d think they’d have grown out of it by now. They’ve been married nearly eighteen months.’

‘Nah, they’re still newly-weds,’ he said with another of his infectious chuckles. He tipped his coffee-cup and she watched his very masculine throat work as he swallowed. Then he stretched luxuriously, totally unselfconscious, and hauled himself to his feet.

‘I suppose we ought to let the love-birds go to lunch and do some work,’ he said with a smile. ‘There’s still some food left—want another doughnut?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I won’t need to eat again for days.’

He snorted rudely, grabbed a sandwich as they passed the table, and headed towards the cubicles.

Stifling a smile, Anna followed.

A few minutes later she lost all urge to smile.

A message came from ambulance control to say that a young boy, Simeon Wilding, was being brought in direct from school with a severe asthma attack, and he was reported to be in a serious condition.

‘OK,’ Patrick said calmly. ‘We’ll take him straight into Crash. Can someone clear it, please, and get it ready? We may need to ventilate him. Any information on drugs?’

Anna shook her head. ‘No, nothing. He’s a known asthmatic; we may have the notes. Julie’s searching for them.’

Julie was the receptionist, and, having checked for notes held in the unit, would then check with the asthma clinic. If they were in the hospital, Julie would track them down in the next few minutes.

Until then, they just had to play it by ear. They prepared the nebuliser with salbutamol, cleared the decks and waited.

They heard the ambulance coming and went to the door in time to see it sweep in very rapidly. The doors were flung open and the boy was out, heading for the department, with Patrick running beside the trolley and examining the lad as they came.

Anna could see that his lips were blue, his eyes wide, and he was clearly fighting for breath. Then, as she watched, his eyes closed and he stopped breathing.

Patrick swore, very softly, and yanked down the blanket, slapping the stethoscope on his chest as they manoeuvred through the doors.

‘Damn. He’s arrested. Get him into Crash.’

They ran, leaving him on the trolley for speed as they all went automatically into action as soon as the trolley was stationary.

Feeling for the breastbone, Patrick crossed his hands and pumped hard on the boy’s chest.

Anna heard a dull creak and winced. A rib had gone. Oh, well, it was better than dying. She didn’t have time to think about it, though, because she had to take over from Patrick while he inserted the cuffed tube and blew it up, sealing the airway. Then he connected it to the humidified air from the ventilator unit on the wall and watched as the boy’s chest rose and fell.

They alternated cardiac massage with positive ventilation, to allow the air to be forced into his lungs, together with a measured dose of a bronchodilator to combat the swollen tubes in his lungs that were preventing him from breathing.

While Anna worked another nurse was putting monitor leads on his chest, and then he was connected up and they could see the flat trace that indicated the heart was still not beating.

‘Damn you, don’t you dare die,’ Patrick muttered, and, pushing Anna out of the way, he thumped the boy’s chest hard.

The line wiggled, then settled into an erratic rhythm. ‘He’s fibrillating—I’ll give him a jolt. Stand back, everyone, please.’

They took a pace back while Patrick held the paddles to the boy’s chest. ‘Shock, please,’ Patrick said.

The boy’s body arched and flopped, and the trace suddenly corrected itself. As it did, the boy’s lips turned less blue and he started to fidget.

‘I’ll give him a minute and then we’ll try him off the ventilator,’ Patrick told them, and bent over the boy.

‘Simeon, it’s OK, you’re going to be fine,’ he said calmly, his voice reassuring.

The boy’s eyelids fluttered up and he started to fight the ventilator. Patrick disconnected him from the machine and watched to see if he could breathe alone. To their relief his chest rose and fell gently. ‘Good,’ Patrick said, and, letting down the cuff, he withdrew the endotracheal tube from the boy’s mouth.

He coughed, his breath rasping, and Anna replaced the tube with a mask connected to a nebuliser. Warm, damp air flowed into his lungs, and within minutes he looked much better.

‘My chest hurts—I want my mum,’ he said in a small voice, and beside her Anna felt Patrick almost sag with relief. He was all right; the fight for air had been won before it was too late. Another few seconds and he could have suffered irreversible brain damage.

Even so, Patrick was worried about him.

‘I think he ought to go into ITU for a day or so, if the paediatrician agrees,’ he said quietly to Anna.

She nodded. It was standard procedure to overprotect their young asthmatic patients, because attacks of that severity rarely happened in isolation and in ITU everything necessary was there at hand.

The paediatric consultant, Andrew Barrett, arrived then and took over, examining the boy and chatting quietly to him.

It seemed they were old friends—the boy a frequent visitor to the paediatric ward. This time, though, Andrew agreed with Patrick. It had been a little too close for comfort, and they were erring on the safe side.

Just as he left the department Jack and Kathleen Lawrence came back in, staring at the trolley in surprise.

‘Was that Simeon Wilding?’

‘Yes—asthma attack. He arrested,’ Patrick told them economically.

‘What?’ Jack looked shocked.

Patrick smiled slightly. ‘He’s OK—well, apart from a rib I may have cracked. He’s going to Paediatric ITU for a couple of days, just to be on the safe side. He stopped breathing, but he’s spoken to us and he’s OK—at least for now.’

Jack’s mouth tipped into a cynical curve. ‘Of course he is—after all, it’s only asthma.’

Anna heard the bitterness in his voice and understood it. Asthma was so common that it tended to be ignored, underestimated, almost brushed aside until a crisis forced it into view.

An event like this brought you up hard against reality, she thought. Most of their critical asthmatics made it, but every now and again they would lose a patient to it, even though it was ‘only asthma’.

They all felt so helpless then, and Jack hated being helpless. Patrick, too, she realised, looking at them as they shared a frustrated smile.

‘Oh, well, we do what we can. Well done for saving him,’ Jack said, and rested his hand on Patrick’s shoulder.

‘I’ve been meaning to give you a guided tour of the department all morning—but I guess you’ve seen Crash now?’

Patrick laughed. ‘Yes—thank you.’

‘How about a coffee?’ Kathleen suggested.

Just then the phone rang, and as one they all turned to look at it, then shrugged.

‘So who needed coffee anyway?’ Kathleen said philosophically, and picked up the phone.