Читать книгу A Mother for His Baby - Leah Martyn, Leah Martyn - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

MONDAY morning.

Brady came quietly into the staffroom to begin his first day as a family practitioner at Mt Pryde Medical Centre. His ‘Good morning’ was met with an answering chorus from the other staff members.

He helped himself to a coffee from the filter machine. Then, mug in hand, he stood with his back against the wall and almost bemusedly watched his colleagues as they eased themselves into their working day.

Tom, who had obviously missed breakfast, was making himself toast and Marmite at the benchtop. Angelo was looking through his mail and grumbling to anyone who would listen that it was about time specialists got off their collective tails and came to rural hospitals to conduct clinics.

While Jo…And there Brady stopped, his gaze skimming her slender figure, lingering on the pristine little top that showed off her tan from her recent holiday and then dropping to run the length of her legs in their soft cotton trousers. Then back to her silver-blonde head, bent over a journal of some kind while she almost absently took a mouthful of coffee from the mug in her left hand.

Brady’s heart thumped against his ribs. He should really ask her round for a meal. She’d done so much to help him settle in. And matching him up with Thea was proving a godsend. He could come to the surgery each day knowing his son was in the best of hands.

Guilt and need in equal measure gnawed at him. He could ask Jo round tonight—knock together a pasta of some description. Then he stopped his train of thought abruptly. He couldn’t involve her in his life outside the practice. He’d chosen to walk this path alone. And that’s the way it had to stay.

Vicki breezed in. ‘Hi, everyone.’

‘Hi, Vic,’ was the chorused reply.

Vicki made her way across to the bench and with no attempt at subtlety elbowed Tom out of way. ‘I hope you’re intending to clean up after yourself, young Dr Yardley?’

Tom stuffed a corner of toast into his mouth. ‘I thought you might, Vic…’

‘In your dreams, sunshine. I’ve my own work to do. Brady.’ She dimpled a smile back over her shoulder. ‘Ready for your first day?’

‘Just about.’ Brady took another mouthful of his coffee. ‘Can anyone tell me why people assume that doctors in general survive on casseroles?’

‘Come again?’ Angelo’s dark head came up and he blinked.

Brady gave a twitch of his shoulders. ‘I’ve already had three given to me, one from my elderly neighbour and two from a nice lady who called yesterday and said she was from the church.’

‘No one gave me casseroles when I moved into my place,’ Tom grumbled.

‘You only eat pizzas,’ Vicki scolded. ‘You’d have chucked them out.’

‘Would not. I’d have given them to the poor of the parish.’

‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, children!’ Angelo shook his head and got to his feet. He scooped up the rest of his mail. ‘Folk here are friendly, Brady. News of your arrival will have travelled fast. And the fact you have a baby, well…’

Brady’s mouth turned up in a wry grin. ‘You mean I can expect gifts of nappies and formula as well?’

That remark brought laughter. Then a general exodus began.

Jo had been conscious of Brady from the second he’d walked into the staffroom. She just hoped things worked out for him in Mt Pryde and he’d want to stay.

She didn’t ask herself why she wanted that. Didn’t dare. Instead, she realised she’d have to keep reminding herself she had to work with him, had to treat him as a colleague and not allow her senses to zoom to full alert every time he came within her orbit.

She hung back purposely, waiting for everyone to clear the room. But Brady was still there, washing his mug at the sink. She glanced at her watch. She had to get on. Slipping off the high stool where she’d been perched, she asked, ‘How was Andrew this morning?’

Brady upended his mug on the drainer and began to dry his hands on a paper towel. ‘Good. Thea has great plans for them today.’

‘You could slip home at lunchtime and make sure he’s all right.’

Brady’s mouth twitched briefly. ‘I’m tempted—but, no, I don’t want to start being distracted from my job. That’s not fair to the rest of the team.’

‘Just till you and AJ settle in.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s kind of you to suggest it, Jo, but let me do this my way—OK?’

Jo’s mouth flattened in an apologetic smile. ‘It was just a thought.’

‘I know.’ His own smile was teasing and very direct. ‘It’s probably your mothering instincts at play.’

Jo felt her face warm. Now, there was a thought. ‘Uh, has Ralph handed over to you yet?’

‘Mmm. I spent the entire day here with him yesterday.’

Sunday? Jo frowned. ‘That was a bit above the call of duty, wasn’t it?’

He shrugged. ‘I didn’t mind. Especially in the circumstances.’

So Ralph had obviously told him about his grandson. ‘It’s a real blow for the family.’

‘I’d be completely gutted if anything like that happened to AJ,’ Brady replied soberly. Then in a beat his mood lightened and he moved to the door and held it open for her. ‘Come on, Dr Rutherford, or Vicki will be after our hides.’

Jo made a face. ‘Mondays are always nuts, aren’t they?’

‘Yep. But I’m really looking forward to meeting my patients and getting stuck in.’

‘Just yell if you need to consult about anything,’ Jo offered.

‘Thanks, Jo—for everything.’ For what seemed like aeons they held each other’s gaze and Brady felt his throat constrict. Her eyes were like emerald-green pools, inviting him to dive in.

Oh, damn. If only he dared.

He cleared his throat. ‘Uh, probably see you at lunchtime, then.’

She nodded and they turned, each heading in opposite directions to their consulting rooms.

* * *

With a feeling of optimism Brady picked up the card for his first patient from Vicki, then stuck his head into the waiting room and called, ‘Samara? Come through, please.’

A young woman in jeans and skinny-rib top rose to her feet. ‘You’re new, aren’t you?’ she said, click-clacking along in her sandals behind him and then taking the chair beside his desk.

‘Brady McNeal. I’m taking over Dr Mitchell’s patients.’

Samara, who was nineteen, pressed her hands together prayer-like, locking them between her jeans-clad knees. ‘I’ve had some tests done. Dr Mitchell said he’d have the results if I came back today.’

‘That’s right.’ Brady had gone carefully over the young woman’s notes with Ralph.

Originally, she’d presented with chronic fatigue and lethargy, and after several attempts to get at the cause of her problems with no worthwhile results, Ralph had sent her for a small bowel gastroscopy—a biopsy of the small intestine. The results were back and, bingo!

Brady brought up her file on the computer. ‘The results of your biopsy are pretty conclusive, Samara,’ he told his patient gently. ‘It appears you have what is known as coeliac disease.’ He spelled it out for her and said, ‘It’s pronounced, seal-e-ack.’

Samara shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. What does it mean exactly?’

‘In simple terms,’ Brady said, ‘it means you have an intolerance to gluten.’

‘That’s wheat and stuff, isn’t it?’

Brady nodded. ‘Especially wheat, but we can’t dismiss other grains like rye, barley and possibly oats.’

Samara chewed her bottom lip, digesting the information. ‘So what will I eat, then? I mean, there are additives in everything these days. Will I have to start reading every label on every bit of food I buy? That’ll be a real pain. I live away from home,’ she expanded, ‘so it’s not like I can get my mum to prepare my food.’

‘It will be a bit of a minefield,’ Brady agreed. ‘But don’t lose heart before you start. Just think that if it’s going to make the difference between you feeling well or not well, it’ll be worth doing, won’t it?’

‘I guess…’

He smiled reassuringly and pulled a couple of pamphlets from his drawer. ‘You won’t have to do it all on your own. There’s quite an active support group in the town. But read these for a start and I’ll give you a letter of referral to the dietitian at the hospital. Make an appointment as soon as you can. She’ll have a fund of information you’ll be able to tap into.’

Samara took the pamphlets and looked down at them. ‘Looks like I’ll have to be really picky about what I eat,’ she said glumly.

‘If it’s to be of benefit to you, the diet has to be strict,’ Brady pointed out practically. ‘But don’t imagine you’ll have to go on army rations. There will be a vast range of foods you’ll be able to eat. And enjoy. You’ll just have a different eating pattern from most of us, that’s all.’

Samara swept a hand through her white-blonde fringe, leaving it in little tufts. ‘So when I get going with this new diet, I should start to feel better, shouldn’t I?’

‘You should.’ Brady was cautious. ‘But it may be slow and gradual. You’ll begin to notice your energy picking up. That’ll be a good sign. Give your new diet a month or so and then come back and we’ll test your iron levels. That will be an indicator that you’re on the right track.’

Samara’s pretty mouth flattened in resignation. ‘Bang go my ham and pineapple pizzas, then. The bases are all made from wheat flour for sure. And toast! I love my toast!’

‘Hang on.’ Brady raised a hand in a halting motion. ‘Maybe not…’ He picked up his phone and depressed the number he’d memorised. ‘Ah, Jo, sorry to bother you.’ He explained why he was calling and listened for a moment. ‘Thanks for that,’ he said, before clipping the receiver back on its cradle. ‘Samara, you’re in luck.’ His head came up and he smiled. ‘Apparently the baker in the arcade makes a gluten-free bread for special customers, but you’ll need to order it in advance.’

A tiny dimple flickered in Samara’s cheek. ‘So I can have my toast?’

‘Probably.’ Brady handed the referral letter to his patient and got to his feet to see her out. ‘But to be on the safe side, perhaps run it past the dietitian when you see her, OK?’

Brady ploughed on through his patient list, pleased he’d got through by one o’clock when the surgery officially closed for lunch.

He was feeling reasonably upbeat about his morning. He’d managed pretty well, he decided, and had coped without bugging his colleagues too much. Except for his query to Jo, he’d only had to double-check the name of a drug with Angelo before he’d prescribed it. In Canada the drug in question had been dispensed under another brand name entirely. Much better to make sure.

Tom and Jo were already in the staffroom when Brady made his way in. ‘Still in one piece, mate?’ Tom quipped, his nose buried in the sports section of the local paper.

‘And intending to stay that way,’ Brady quipped back. ‘Thanks for your help earlier, by the way.’ He turned towards Jo, who was trying to find the beginning of a new roll of clingfilm.

‘That’s OK. Oh!’ With a yelp of frustration she thrust the lot at Brady. ‘See if you can get it started. It hates me!’

He chuckled and took the offending box of cling film. ‘About lunch,’ he said, painstakingly setting about unravelling the mangled film. ‘Do we bring our own or what?’

‘We do a communal thing,’ Jo said. ‘Vicki collects money from us each week and then shops for fresh bread and various sandwich fillings. Just help yourself to anything in the fridge.’

Intent on his task, Brady continued, ‘So I pay Vicki, then?’

Tom sniggered. ‘She’ll hunt you down, mate. Never fear. Jo, are you doing me a sandwich?’

‘I wouldn’t think so.’

Tom got up and peered over her shoulder at the cutting board. ‘So, who’re the extra slices for, then?’

‘Brady—because he’s new.’

‘I’m still new,’ Tom protested.

‘Rats,’ Jo said mildly. ‘You’ve been here for over a year.’ Still smiling, she swung a look back over her shoulder. ‘Brady, turkey, avocado and cos lettuce OK?’

‘Sounds very healthy.’ Brady had the clingfilm running smoothly and placed it back on the worktop.

‘The tomatoes in the basket are from Monica’s garden.’ Jo said conversationally. ‘Her husband, Terry, grows acid-free beauties. She supplies us with heaps.’ With quick, neat movements Jo made his sandwich, slipped it onto a plate and handed it across to him. ‘Enjoy.’

‘Thanks.’ He eyed her levelly. ‘I’ll make yours tomorrow.’

Jo managed to hold his gaze more or less steadily. ‘Don’t make rash promises,’ she warned lightly. ‘There’s bound to be an emergency or three around the corner.’

Jo’s last patient for the day was Leisa Cooper. She worked at the local library and was pregnant with her first child.

‘How are you feeling?’ Jo asked, when Leisa sank gratefully into the chair.

‘Awful,’ Leisa confessed. ‘I feel so darned tired already and I have weeks to go. And I’m thirsty all the time and having to pee twice as much.’

Jo’s medical instincts sharpened. ‘How long has this been going on?’

‘Not long. It just feels long.’ She made a small face. ‘Couple of weeks, I suppose. Is that significant?’

‘Could be.’ Jo wound the blood-pressure cuff around her patient’s arm and took a reading. And made a swift decision. ‘I’m going to send you along for a glucose tolerance test, Leisa. I’d like you go first thing tomorrow, if possible.’

Leisa’s head came up, her eyes wide in alarm. ‘Is something wrong with me?’

‘Nothing drastically,’ Jo reassured her patient gently. ‘But you may be developing something called gestational diabetes. And before you get too worried, the condition is quite common in pregnancy.’

‘Is it something I’ve done wrong?’

‘Nothing like that. While you’re pregnant, the placenta is busily secreting hormones but in some women the uptake of hormones increases the body’s resistance to insulin. When this happens, you need more insulin to help the body’s cells and muscles take up glucose from the bloodstream.’

Leisa touched a hand to her tummy. ‘So, what happens?’

‘Simply, the glucose stays around in the bloodstream. That’s why we need the test done, to see what’s going on with you.’ Jo took up her pen to write out the request for the path lab. ‘It would be helpful if you could have the morning off to have this GTT done, Leisa.’

‘I could probably arrange that.’ Leisa looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘So, how involved is this glucose tolerance test, then?’

‘Not terribly,’ Jo said. ‘It just takes a while. First off, you’ll be asked to drink a quantity of Lucosade.’

‘My poor bladder,’ Leisa groaned. ‘I won’t have to drink gallons of the stuff, will I?’

Jo chuckled. ‘No. From memory, the amount is around three hundred mils. After that, your blood will be tested at one hourly intervals, three in all. If your blood glucose levels indicate you’re not within the normal range, we’ll begin treatment.’

‘Oh, lord…’ Leisa sighed. ‘Is the rest of my pregnancy going to be awful?’

Jo shook her head. ‘Don’t think like that, Leisa. I’d hope diet and exercise will get things right for you. If the diagnosis in confirmed, we’ll begin liaising with Vanessa Rowntree, the dietitian at the hospital. She’ll do an intensive medical history with you and then get you started on an appropriate health regime.’