Читать книгу To Break A Doctor's Heart - Шэрон Кендрик, Sharon Kendrick - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

AND ALL Claire could think about as she and Anna pushed open the ward doors was that day on Primrose Hill . . . a cold sunny March morning which was to change her life.

She remembered deciding to travel to North London for a change—she wanted to pay a visit to a little shop she knew in Primrose Hill. It was in a small parade just yards from Regent’s Park Zoo and sold delicate antique lace and dresses. It was not far from the restaurant which Simon had taken her to a fortnight earlier, where she had seen the man with the enigmatic eyes, whose one brief glance had seemed to startle her out of her boredom and complacency.

Was that why she had come here today? Was she perhaps hoping to see him again? an inner voice asked her. But she told the voice to be quiet; London was a huge city and she would probably never see him again.

She took a bus all the way, and it was packed with people, but once beyond Marble Arch the crowds thinned away and she was able to sit and think in peace.

There had been a letter from her mother that morning, gaily telling her that she was planning an extended trip to America with her new husband.

Claire couldn’t help but give a small sigh. She had tried so hard to like Ian McGregor, tried for her mother’s sake as well as his. But she couldn’t shake off her initial impression that he was a poor replacement for her father. Perhaps it was fortuitous, then, that the new husband should have taken his wife to live in New Zealand, and that all three were to be spared the confirmation of an uneasy relationship.

The bus stopped and Claire stepped out on to the pavement just below the Hill itself. It was a perfect spring morning, with a sky the colour of a bird’s egg. Although the sun shone, the air was sharp and tangy and the first purple and white crocuses were beginning to peep out from beneath the bases of the trees.

She hoped that a shopping trip and a change of scene might dispel some of the niggling gloom which had recently threatened to envelop her. And yet there was no real reason for despondency—she was nineteen years old, a successful model earning a very creditable salary, with her own flat in the centre of London. What more could she possibly want?

She didn’t know, but she felt as though a better life could be within her reach, if only she knew how to go about grasping it.

Success had come to her early—she had been living on her own since she was sixteen, and she had had to learn to protect herself from the men who seemed hell-bent on seduction. She had been teased for being standoffish by the wine-swilling account executives and the braying immature city stockbrokers whom she met. But their wild, drunken parties had held not the slightest attraction for her—she preferred solitary evenings in front of the television to the forced jollity of the crowd’s ‘high jinks’.

She gave her shoulders a little shake, and mentally chided herself. It was pointless feeling sorry for herself—it was a glorious spring morning, she had a free day ahead of her, and she was going to jolly well make the most of it!

She spent an enjoyable hour looking through the racks of dresses, and eventually settled on a diaphanous creation in the palest of pink silk tulle. The skirt fell in many layers to just above the ankle and the top layer was edged with a delicate border of embroidered flowers.

It was far more than she had wanted to pay, but it was ages since she had bought anything, and besides, she felt like treating herself. She paid by cheque and, thanking the young owner, took her carrier bag and went outside.

She looked at her watch. It was getting on for midday. Maybe she should stroll on the Hill for a while and then look for somewhere to lunch.

As she opened the gates which led on to Primrose Hill, the first subtle wakenings of spring reminded her of her holiday in Greece, and her blood quickened slightly. She had stopped going to the clubs and parties which were simply a hot, smoky crush, and which she hadn’t been enjoying at all, and she felt much better for it.

Simon had been phoning her all week, but she had told him that she intended to live a quiet existence for the time being, and he had told her to ‘give him a bell’ when she felt like company again.

She had told her agent to lessen up on her bookings and had sent for several brochures from her local night school, thinking that she might take up painting. It might not completely solve her discontentment, she thought, but at least it might take her mind off it.

She walked briskly up to the summit of the hill, swinging her white and silver carrier bag as she did so. Her curls blew wildly around her head, the bright sunshine lighting them from behind so that they blazed red-gold, like a furnace.

When Claire reached the top of the hill, she stood there, breathing deeply and marvelling in the superb panoramic view across London. She could see the tall column of the Post Office Tower in the distance, and in the foreground the bizarre shrouded shape of the Zoo’s aviary.

She could see a man walking up towards her, not sticking to the path, but walking between the quaint little lamp-posts. He was moving rather oddly, she noticed. Even from a couple of hundred yards away, she could see that his face was red and glistening with sweat, and as she watched his gait became even more unsteady.

As he approached, she could hear the laboured sound of his breathing. He was pulling at his tie and then, to her absolute horror, she watched him fall to the ground, gasping, and clutching at his chest.

For a moment she remained frozen and immobile, and then she sprang into action. She had reached him in a few seconds, and she saw that his face was almost grey, and his lips tinged with blue.

‘Help me, please help me . . .’ The words died on his lips.

Claire looked around wildly. She saw a teenager on a bike, a dog running behind him.

‘Help!’ she screamed. ‘Go and ring for an ambulance. Quickly!’

To her relief he didn’t hesitate, but sped down the hill at a breakneck pace.

Claire felt utterly, utterly helpless. She looked down at the man. At least he was still breathing, although with a horrible low, moaning sound which terrified her.

She didn’t have a clue what to do; she had never even done so much as a first aid course at school. She remembered that the man had been tugging at his collar, and so she undid the two top buttons and loosened it. He had a handkerchief in his top pocket, and she gently removed it and wiped away the sweat from his face.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked, taking his hand in hers.

‘Phillips—Alex Phillips,’ he whispered.

‘Well, try not to worry, Mr Phillips,’ she told him, with more confidence than she felt. ‘The ambulance will be here soon.’

He squeezed her hand gratefully and Claire sat there praying that the ambulance would get there soon.

She heard the siren from several streets away and then she saw the ambulance speeding towards them. It skidded to a halt outside the railings, the blue light on the roof spinning round and round like a propeller. She saw the young boy run up to the vehicle and point in her direction, and then the two ambulance men were pulling the stretcher from the back and running up the hill towards them.

When they reached her, one of them put two fingers on the man’s neck.

‘Weak pulse,’ he said briefly. ‘All right, miss, we’ll just get him on the stretcher now.’

Claire stood back as they gently rolled him on to the stretcher, releasing his hand as she did so. His eyes flickered open briefly and he looked up at her.

‘Stay with me,’ he muttered. ‘Please stay.’

She looked questioningly at them. One of them shrugged.

‘That’s OK. You can come, but you’ll have to step on it.’

Forgetting her shopping, she ran behind them, back down the hill. They carefully lifted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance and Claire joined one of the crew in the back, while the other ran round to the cab, jumped in and started the engine.

She watched as the ambulanceman attached a monitor to the man’s chest, and a thin luminous green light began to track across a small screen like a television.

‘Sinus rhythm—that’s good,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘But ST elevation, though.’

He seemed to have forgotten who Claire was, he was speaking to her almost as though she were a nurse, although he might as well have been speaking in Greek, for all that she understood.

The man’s eyes flickered open again. He was middle-aged, but a slim, fit-looking middle-aged. She didn’t think that men like that had heart attacks. His thick hair was frosted with silver. It could have been her father lying there, she thought, then tried to block out the thought immediately.

He glanced over to where she sat on the edge of the opposite stretcher and gave her a weak smile. Claire smiled back as encouragingly as she could. Meanwhile the ambulance was tearing through the streets, only switching on the shrill, terrifying blare of the siren if they came to traffic jams or red lights.

Through the darkened glass at the back she could see that they were going up Haverstock Hill, and there, at last, on the right-hand side, was the entrance to the hospital.

They stopped by some double doors, where they seemed to have been expected, because they flew open immediately and two nurses and a doctor came running out to meet them.

The doctor leapt up the three steps in one, and Claire gave a small gasp. It was the man from the restaurant!

She saw the light of recognition in his eyes, and then he was turning to the patient, his fingers feeling for a pulse, his eyes glued to the small screen, watching the line of the monitor as it rhythmically rose and fell, looking to Claire’s untutored eye like a graph from one of the financial papers.

‘Any fibrillation or VT?’ he asked the ambulanceman.

‘None seen, Doctor.’

‘Good. Let’s get him inside as quickly as possible. Put him into cubicle four, will you?’

He stood aside to let the stretcher be lifted down, then turned to Claire.

‘Are you a relative?’ he asked, very gently.

‘No. He collapsed in front of me.’

‘I’d like to speak to you, after I’ve examined the patient. Can you stay for a little while?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was tremulous. ‘Yes, I can.’

‘Thanks,’ he said briefly, and jumped down from the vehicle and followed the stretcher.

One of the nurses showed Claire into a small, bare office, where she began to shake violently. The whole incident had been so shocking, and then to see him there!

‘Are you all right, my dear?’ asked the nurse, her voice concerned. ‘You’ve gone as white as a sheet. Would you like me to bring you a cup of tea?’

Claire nodded blankly, and thanked the nurse automatically as she came back with a cup and saucer, but it lay untouched on the desk as she sat there, hopelessly dazed.

Presently the door opened and he was standing there, looking down at her and smiling.

‘You!’ he said.

So he wasn’t going to pretend that he didn’t recognise her, she thought with relief. Instinctively, she felt that this man would always be honest with her.

Under his white coat she could see that he was wearing a checked cotton shirt and olive green cords. Again she was struck by the physical presence of him. He looked so alive, and strong and dependable.

He walked over to her and saw the tea-cup.

‘You haven’t touched your tea,’ he remarked.

Claire shook her head. ‘Will he . . . Will Mr Phillips be all right?’ she asked, her face chalky white.

‘Well, the next twenty-four hours will be crucial, but he’s in the best place possible,’ he answered noncommittally but kindly. He looked at his wristwatch. ‘Look, I can’t possibly let you go home in that condition, and I’d like you to tell me what happened. My SHO is putting a drip up on him just now. Let me take you over to the canteen—I need my lunch before this afternoon’s ward round, and I might be able to rustle you up a hot cup of tea. By the way, my name’s Luke Hayward.’

She looked up and gave him a watery smile. ‘Claire Scott,’ she said politely. ‘Thank you very much, I’d like that.’

She had never been in a hospital canteen before, and was slightly taken aback at the level of noise and activity which greeted her. Luke Hayward led her over to a small, quiet table, well away from the counter, and sat her down.

‘I’ll just go and find you some tea. Do you want any lunch?’

She shook her head.

While he joined the queue, she looked around at all the crowded tables. There were groups of chattering nurses, in a huge variety of different coloured uniform dresses and belts. Some sat with doctors. Other tables seated young women and men with short white coats, who Claire supposed must be the medical students.

Perhaps it was a naïve impression, she thought, but everyone looked so animated. She was used to spending lunch-breaks on a shoot with other models who sipped at mineral water, and filed their nails and looked bored.

Luke came back with a tray and placed a cup in front of her. For himself he unloaded an enormous plate full of food with masses of vegetables and potatoes, with fruit to follow. Claire’s eyes widened slightly. Surely he wasn’t going to eat all that! It was more the sort of meal you expected a labourer to eat. The men she usually mixed with picked at a chef’s salad and then consumed a bottle of wine!

Luke must have seen her expression, because his eyes twinkled.

‘Don’t worry,’ he told her, ‘I haven’t usually got quite such a gargantuan appetite, but I was called to coronary care first thing and missed breakfast, and only had a scratch supper last evening. Drink some of your tea now.’

She took a sip. It was the colour of treacle and tasted as though it were composed of treacle too, but she had never enjoyed a cup of tea so much.

Luke ate his meal quickly, like a man used to hurrying, then pushed his plate away and turned the full force of his grey-green eyes on her.

‘Feel better?’ he asked, and she nodded.

‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’

She recited the events of earlier that day as succinctly as possible. ‘But I felt so useless,’ she told him. ‘So impotent, because I wasn’t able to help him in any way.’

‘And just what did you do, exactly?’ he questioned.

‘After I’d told that young boy to call for the ambulance, I loosened Mr Phillips’ collar, wiped his face and sat there holding his hand until help arrived. That’s all,’ she finished glumly.

‘Claire,’ he said, quite seriously, ‘if you’d been a State Registered Nurse, you couldn’t have done any more for him. You did all the right things, and by instinct. Most important of all, he knew that someone was there, caring for him.’

‘Did I? Did I really?’ She looked anxiously into his eyes, but she could only see the truth reflected there.

He nodded, and she drank the last mouthful of her tea, and gave him an enormous smile.

‘You didn’t look very happy at dinner the other evening,’ he observed. ‘Why was that?’

Claire looked at his strong, firm features, the broad set of his shoulders and the penetrating eyes. Suddenly she found herself telling him everything. Telling him about feelings which she hadn’t even acknowledged to herself. And about those she had—about her general dissatisfaction with her life, and her job as a model. And how most of the people she mixed with cared for nothing more than money, and image.

Luke let her talk and talk. She hadn’t spoken to anyone like that for years, not since her father had died. And all the time he listened intently, occasionally nodding.

Eventually she stopped and looked at him, a rueful smile on her lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her blue eyes shining brilliantly, ‘I didn’t mean to place you in the role of father confessor over lunch!’

He ignored the joke and sat there studying her for a minute longer, noting her ice-blue sweater and the glossy abundance of copper curls which fell around her shoulders. Then he leaned over towards her and spoke very softly.

‘Claire,’ he said, ‘forgive me if this sounds like a ludicrous suggestion, but—have you ever thought of becoming a nurse?’

She had not known that he had stood there for almost five minutes on the top step of the main entrance, lost in thought as he watched the tail lights of her taxi disappear into the traffic, wondering what on earth had possessed him to make such a suggestion to her, advising her to come and train at St Anthony’s. He had seen her eyes light up eagerly and she had looked up at him like a little lost puppy.

Was it because she too came from a divorced home, a family in splinters? He had found all the commitment and unity a family provided from hospital life. Could it fulfil her in the same way?

Damn and blast, why the hell hadn’t he just asked her for a date?

Because she was too young. Because a girl like that was probably sick of being asked for a date by every man she met.

Luke had been a doctor long enough to realise that the fleeting gift of beauty was inconsequential without substance. Beneath the sophisticated veneer he had seen the silent appeal in Claire’s lonely eyes. She needed a friend, not a lover. But if she arrived as his protégée, it could make life difficult.

Still, was she really likely to give up modelling—to don a uniform and work all the hours that God sent, as a nurse? If the idea appealed for even half a day, it would be no more than the capricious whim of a very young and impressionable girl, soon to be forgotten when her tall boyfriend reappeared.

The slender young staff nurse from Casualty had appeared at Luke’s elbow, her brown eyes seductive beneath the pert blonde fringe.

‘Excuse me, Dr Hayward,’ she said, smiling, ‘but Switchboard says your bleep isn’t working, and the lab have some urgent results for you, and must speak to you personally.’

He nodded and re-entered the building, his hands deep in the pockets of his cords, his white coat flapping as he strode down the corridor in search of a phone, his ludicrous suggestion already forgotten.