by Karin Baine
‘I know the twenty-sixth of December is considered a holiday, but I hope you don’t mind if I call in and see my patients? It must suck, being away from home at this time of year.’
They walked to the front of the clinic and it seemed odd to find everything still decorated for the season when Christmas Day had been something of a non-event for her. Christmas night, on the other hand, had been more action-packed than she’d anticipated.
‘I don’t mind at all. I know as well as you do we’re never really off duty.’ If she’d been back in London she might’ve been calling in on some of her own patients. There weren’t very many people in her life. At least, none who’d be spending time with her instead of with their own families.
Sometimes those patients having treatment were her comfort as much as she hopefully was theirs. Hospital could be a lonely place with only sporadic visitors, if any. Much like her home life. A simple chat could reassure both sides there was life outside those four walls.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive.’ It took her a few seconds to figure out what he was apologising for. He’d mistakenly believed she might have been pining for the comfort of her own home when it was strangers in a different medical setting she had been thinking about. Not that she was going to have him pity her by explaining that to him.
He’d given up their relationship to remain here, transforming an ancestral pile into somewhere he and his sister could work and live side by side. Home was never somewhere he’d leave when he’d given up everything to keep it. Whereas her apartment was simply a base where she slept between surgeries and meetings. It could literally be anywhere in the world. Easily transferable. There was no real emotional connection. If that’s what constituted a home, there was more attachment for her at Heatherglen already.
‘Don’t worry about it. There’ll be plenty more Christmases to come.’ Once there was a baby involved, things would be different. She was sure she’d want to spend all the time she could with her child rather than wandering around hospital wards.
It had been a long time since she’d felt the excitement other people seemed to draw from Christmas and she was looking forward to experiencing it for herself. Whether it was London or here at Heatherglen, Harriet knew next year would be the best one yet.
‘Things might have changed since you were last here.’ Charles showed off the renovations with pride, but Harriet couldn’t view his achievements objectively when she knew they’d come at the price of her happiness. Every new fixture and fitting had been built on her heartache.
‘So, how many patients do you take in at a time?’
‘We can manage around twenty residents, but Esme deals with more clients at the therapy centre. We’ve got a good set-up.’
They wandered past a Christmas tree decorated similarly to the one in the private wing except it was missing those personal touches of home-made ornaments she was sure were Esme’s handiwork.
‘Didn’t this used to be—?’ She spun around, finding something familiar about the space they were in, except in place of the heavy velvet drapes she recalled, there were modern vertical blinds.
‘Ah, yes, this used to be the lounge. We had to replace a lot for health and safety reasons, but we tried to keep the original features, like the fireplace. This one is only for the aesthetics now.’ It remained grand and ornate in here, although it had been repurposed, but it was in this very room he’d crushed her thoughts of marrying him.
Perhaps that was why he’d gutted it. In the hope of removing all traces of her and what had happened. This place was proof that wasn’t possible. You couldn’t simply erase history because it suited you. There were always going to be reminders of the past intruding on the present, no matter how hard you tried to cover it up.
‘I remember being in here the day of your father’s funeral.’ She hadn’t said it to upset him. The memory of that day, the room full of people and chatter as they’d mourned his loss, was simply too vivid to ignore. It had been clear something other than grief had been plaguing Charles when he’d been so distant they could’ve been in different cities then instead of standing side by side. He’d done her the courtesy of waiting until the other mourners had departed before he’d ended their engagement, even insisting she keep the ring, but it hadn’t lessened her humiliation or confusion.
‘It was a long time ago.’ Something he obviously didn’t want to be reminded of when he was striding on towards the other rooms.
Harriet bit her lip when it wasn’t as easy for her to dismiss it but opening up old wounds wasn’t going to help either of them. She was supposed to be over it all, that’s what she’d told him, or he’d probably never have slept with her again. They couldn’t change what had happened then any more than they could alter their decisions, or lack of them, in London.
She wasn’t sure he’d even do anything differently when so many had benefitted from the clinic since their break-up. Certainly, she wouldn’t choose to change more recent events between them. Motherhood wasn’t something she’d wish away now when it was a part of her. If she hadn’t fallen pregnant by accident she might never have factored a baby into her life and she had no regrets about the prospect of becoming a mum. It was the most important event in her life she had to look forward to. They simply had to live with the decisions they’d made and make the most of whatever fate had in store for them.
‘So, what services do you offer here?’ Back onto more neutral ground, perhaps she’d stop getting so emotional about what this place represented to her and begin to see it as just another workplace environment.
‘We run our clinics, of course, with state-of-the-art facilities. Along with more holistic therapies and emergency facilities for the community en route to the main hospital.’
‘It looks as though you have everything you need here. I don’t see what I could possibly add to your set-up.’ Harriet wasn’t being humble. She was aware that an experienced orthopaedic surgeon would be sought-after in a private clinic. There simply wasn’t enough professional incentive in it for her.
While she wanted to help every person she could, she suspected the more challenging patients would be found in city hospitals and that was where she thrived. It was satisfying to improve a patient’s quality of life by relieving pain and improving their mobility. Those with more insight into the human psyche might suggest a link to the mother she’d never felt she’d truly helped, and needed to atone for her perceived failure as a daughter. It was just as well she tried not to dwell on those things she couldn’t fix and concentrated on those she could. With one exception. While the surroundings of her patients might be different, she wouldn’t trade the number of lives she could improve for a matter of comfort or cash.
‘You’re the best in your field, Harriet. We both know that. Waiting lists for surgery can be backlogged for years and most people come here because they can’t face the pain for that extended amount of time.’
‘Spit it out, Charles. I know you’re building up to something.’ It wasn’t simply her sparkling personality and unborn child he was after, by the sound of it.
‘You know me too well.’
‘Once upon a time, perhaps, but I don’t presume to predict what’s going on in your head any more.’ The barb successfully managed to wipe the grin from his face and suggested she could still wound him. Although that wasn’t going to achieve anything except make it harder for them to work alongside each other if she kept dragging up past hurt. If she ever entertained the idea of moving.
‘The main reason for my visit today, and for bringing you with me, was to meet a few people.’ He stopped looking at her as though she’d shot him in the chest and started up the huge marble staircase.
‘Who?’ Her borrowed boots were squeaking as she hurried to catch up with him down the corridor. She might be dressed appropriately for the Scottish winter climate, or Esme’s place of work, but compared to Charles and
the clinic she was out of place and under-dressed.
A city slicker transported into the birthplace of nobility, she could do without him trailing her around like a pet. She preferred to be the one in control of the facts and her daily schedule. Something she’d sworn she wouldn’t give up for Charles or anyone else. Not even her firstborn.
Flora, the physiotherapist, was leaving the room they’d stopped at. ‘Oh, hi. He seems to be moving a little better today. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.’
‘Thanks, Flora. We’re just popping in to say hello.’ He knocked on the door and waited for the resident inside to permit him entry. It was a simple gesture but showed the respect he had for his patients’ privacy, treating them more as house guests than customers.
‘Come...in.’ A laboured male voice came from the other side of the door.
‘I’m taking you in to see Gerry. He’s recovering here after his stroke, so we’re still working on getting his speech and mobility back on track.’
Harriet appreciated the heads up before they went in. A stroke could occur when a blockage prevented the blood supply reaching the brain, or because of a burst blood vessel. The resulting injury to the brain caused by a stroke could cause widespread and long-lasting problems. Including communication or irrational behaviour, caused by the psychological and cognitive impact of a stroke. It was always best to be prepared for such circumstances in case a patient became angry or resentful towards those trying to help them. Thankfully, such behaviour lessened as rehabilitation and recovery progressed.
The elderly gentleman was sitting in an armchair by the bed, clad in blue cotton pyjamas and trying his best to run a comb through his thinning white hair with a shaky hand.
‘Hello, Mr Moore. I hope you don’t mind me bringing a colleague of mine in to see you. This is Harriet.’ Charles made the introduction and Harriet stepped forward to say hello.
‘Call...me... Gerry. Lovely...to...meet...you... Harriet.’
His speech was slow and slurred. The evidence of his stroke was visible where the left side of his face drooped, but he still had a twinkle in his eye that said he had a lot of life still to live.
‘You too, Gerry.’ She took his hand and gently clasped it between both of hers.
‘How is it going with Flora, your physiotherapist?’ Charles sat on the edge of the bed, giving more of an impression that he was a visitor than the attending doctor.
‘Task...master.’ Gerry grinned.
‘You certainly seem to be improving.’ He nodded towards the comb, which was now balancing precariously on the edge of the nightstand. Harriet knew how important physio was to stroke patients to improve muscle strength with exercises. Although recovery could be slow, these small goals, such as picking up objects, were important. They encouraged patients on towards longer-term, more demanding goals such as standing or walking. It was all working towards getting the person’s life back where possible.
‘Can...feed...myself...now.’
‘That’s fantastic. I’ll see if it’s possible to have your meals with the other residents. The company will do you good.’
Gerry smiled at that but even the effort of speaking was obviously already taking its toll on him.
‘We should get on and let you practise the exercises Flora has given you. I just wanted to call in and see how you were. I know the team are working with you but if you need to talk to me about how you’re feeling, just let me know. This can be a confusing, frustrating time and I’m here, along with everyone else, to help you through this. The same goes for your wife. This is a lot for her to deal with too.’ Charles shook his hand and Harriet said her goodbyes too. By the time they reached the door Gerry had already closed his eyes.
It was clear Charles went above and beyond the call of duty for his patients and if he was doing this to prove to her he was a nice guy at heart...well, it was working.
‘He’s a lovely man and he certainly seems to be recovering well.’
‘I think it helps to have a multi-disciplinary team all under one roof. There are a lot of us working together in cases like this. You know orthopaedics could be used in conjunction with physiotherapy to work towards the best recovery. Surgery could provide stability to increase function in some instances.’ Charles didn’t have to convince her of the benefits of having a skilled team tailored to the needs of individual patients. She’d witnessed it for herself on occasion. The problem for her in joining the team at Heatherglen lay closer to home.
‘Uh-huh?’ She didn’t give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him, but she was enjoying having him try to convince her. It gave her an insight into the work he was doing here, and the sort of man he’d become in her absence. A noble, conscientious one who only wanted the best for Heatherglen and his patients.
‘I have someone else I’d like you to meet. If you want to?’ He hesitated, perhaps picking up on her wariness about getting drawn into this.
‘Of course.’ She didn’t want him to think she wasn’t interested in his work when that was supposed to be the reason behind this visit.
He led her down the hall to another room and knocked on the door. A cheery, young voice shouted for him to come in.
Charles opened the door and ushered Harriet into the room. ‘This is the Dawson family. Everyone, this is Harriet Bell, a friend who’s staying with us at Heatherglen.’
‘Hi.’ The young girl in the bed could only have been about seven or eight with her parents sitting close by. Her adorable gap-toothed smile stole anyone’s right to be in a bad mood when she was the one hooked up to hospital machinery.
‘Bryony is my favourite patient but don’t tell anyone else in case they get jealous.’ Charles winked at the little girl, who giggled in response. He was charming a child as easily as he had her when they’d first met. It gave some indication of what an excellent father he would make. One more reason to like him she didn’t need.
‘Hello, Bryony.’ Harriet greeted Mr and Mrs Dawson too, though she didn’t know why Charles had brought her here.
‘Is Harriet your girlfriend?’ Bryony asked. The Charles-crushing apparently started from an early age.
Harriet found herself watching and waiting for his reply as intensely as his little admirer. Ridiculous when she hadn’t held that title for a considerable part of her adult life.
‘I told you, Ms Bell is a surgeon, like me. Except she works with people’s bones instead of their noggins.’ He rapped his knuckles on his skull and set off more childish laughter, successfully avoiding answering the personal question.
‘Can you fix my legs?’ With the directness only a child could get away with, Bryony challenged Harriet directly.
‘I’m sorry, I...er...’ Put on the spot, she felt compelled to answer without knowing anything of Bryony’s medical history, or how long her connection to Heatherglen as a medical practitioner would last.
‘Harriet’s just visiting but I’d like to share your details with her, if that’s okay?’ He was checking with Bryony as much as her parents but all three nodded their consent.
Harriet had the ominous feeling of having walked into a trap.
‘Bryony has cerebral palsy. At the minute she has a baclofen pump to help with the chronic pain. It’s a small device implanted in her abdomen connected to the spinal cord by a thin tube under her skin. It continuously dispenses medication through the spinal column and delivers muscle relaxant to reduce tightness.’ Undergoing surgery at such a young age made the children more special to the medical staff involved. There were always risks and no one undertook these procedures lightly on such fragile bodies. Bryony certainly seemed to have a special place in Charles’s heart.
As an orthopaedic surgeon she had a lot of experience with CP too. Cerebral palsy—a group of conditions caused by an issue with the brain around the time of birth—led to difficulties with muscle strength and movement. The severity
of the condition varied from patient to patient, but many came to her to address problems of muscle spasticity and contractures. With surgery, Harriet was able to help release muscles that were too tight or transfer strong muscles for weak ones. In some cases, she operated on the joints themselves, to aid deformity preventing basic motor function.
All of which Charles would’ve known before bringing her in here. However, the history of the patient’s condition and potential for improvement had to be taken into consideration before surgery. She couldn’t volunteer her skills without extensive consultation with a team of carers and specialists to set realistic goals. Something she was willing to do if asked.
‘I hope the pump helps you feel better soon.’ Although she didn’t want to reference it for fear of upsetting the family, Harriet was aware it must’ve been hard to have gone through this, especially over Christmas.
‘Recovery has taken longer than expected. Bryony picked up a virus from her little brother right after surgery, but we hope to have you home soon, don’t we?’ Charles obviously had been thinking the same thing and Harriet would’ve been surprised if he hadn’t paid a visit at some point yesterday, as he was so fond of her.
‘Santa sent me a letter to say he’ll make a special stop at my house when I’m better.’
‘Because you’re such a brave and special girl.’ Her mum rested a hand on her daughter’s forehead, but Harriet didn’t miss the glances exchanged between her and Charles. She got the impression he might’ve had a hand in that letter. In fact, she’d go as far to say it was probably in his handwriting.
‘We’re going to have a second special Christmas once Bryony’s home.’ As Bryony disclosed the contents of her extensive, unicorn-themed Christmas list, her mother looked as though she’d enjoy it as much as her daughter, knowing she’d be home safe.
A sudden jolt of awareness at the role she was about to take on almost knocked Harriet off her feet. Every decision she made from now on, every emotion was going to be tied to this baby. Just as Mrs Dawson’s happiness and peace of mind were centred around her child. It didn’t matter what happened between her and Charles, Scotland and London, this baby’s welfare came first.
