Lifting Suspicion

by Gill Sanderson

  She went back to the ward. In an hour she had a round with Sylvia, and there were a few things she had to prepare first. Megan got on quite well with Sylvia – or it might be better stated that Sylvia got on quite well with Megan. ‘We can get on – you’re not one of these brassy SHOs I’ve had in the past,’ she’d explained to Megan. Megan had looked at Sylvia’s freshly dyed blonde hair and had wondered about the pot calling the kettle black – or, in this case, brassy – but wisely had said nothing.

  Megan sat in the doctors’ room and checked all the files of the patients, made sure the bloods were in, reports from labs, and so on. By five to the hour she was finished, but Sylvia was a quarter of an hour late.

  They did the round quickly with a nurse in attendance. Then they went back to the doctors’ room, for Sylvia to have a coffee and for Megan to write up the notes. And Sylvia, of course, wanted to gossip.

  ‘What d’you think of our new consultant?’ she asked Megan when they were alone. ‘What d’you think of what he said this morning?’

  Megan had to speak cautiously. With Sylvia, patients’ might be protected by confidentiality but the views of SHOs weren’t. ‘He seems all right,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’d want to cross him.’

  ‘He’s certainly not a gentleman doctor like our last consultant,’ Sylvia agreed. ‘And I thought you always got on well with poor old Charles?’

  Sylvia had never quite understood the relationship between her and Charles, and Megan wasn’t going to be drawn. ‘I’m sure Mr Firth will be very good,’ she said quietly, ‘but perhaps in a different way.’

  ‘A very different way. Christopher Firth would eat Charles for breakfast.’

  Quickly, without looking, Sylvia signed a dozen forms that Megan passed to her. ‘I was interested to hear he wasn’t married.’

  ‘There still might be a fiancée or something,’ Megan offered. ‘He might have someone in the background.’

  ‘I don’t think so. There was a look in his eye. I think he’s fancy-free.’ Sylvia seemed cheered by the thought.

  ‘D’you fancy your chances with him?’ Megan asked, rather daringly. She knew that Sylvia had been married before, for she’d had a protracted divorce about two years previously which everyone in the hospital had happily gossiped about.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing more of him,’ Sylvia said airily. ‘I think I’ll invite him to dinner. Or something subtle. Perhaps I’ll ask him to talk to my ladies’ luncheon club. Who knows what might happen after that?’

  Usually Megan was patient, happy to go along with Sylvia’s little ways in the interests of peace. But suddenly she felt she’d had enough. She knew it was completely the wrong thing to say because if she wanted a quiet life she should just smile and say nothing. She didn’t know what was getting into her. But she said, ‘Quite a bit younger than you, isn’t he?’

  Sylvia’s face darkened. ‘Perhaps,’ she snapped. ‘Look Megan, I’ve got no time to gossip and neither have you. Try to get those forms finished, will you?’

  ‘Another ten minutes,’ Megan said demurely.

  For the rest of the afternoon she occupied herself by taking bloods and then writing up her records. Every time she was called to see a patient, even if it was just that a nurse had suggested that someone was looking a bit down, the visit – and observations – had to be recorded. When the final form had been filled in she checked her watch. Six fifteen. She decided not to go home so she phoned and left a message on the machine. If she was going to be on call instead of Will for the complete night, she might as well sleep at the hospital.

  She ate a swift meal in the canteen, then went to the hospital library to do some work for her next FRCS exam. The night sister on duty was another old friend, Liz Grey, and Megan arranged with her that there would be a bed available on the ward. When she felt tired she changed into greens, had a ten-minute chat with Liz, and then went to bed. So far there had been no emergency calls, but babies tended to arrive at the most awkward moments. She could still be wakened.

  She was. There was Liz, a cup of tea in her hand, shaking her gently by the shoulder. ‘Ambulance crew phoned,’ she said laconically, ‘bringing in a sixteen-year-old girl. Somehow the family didn’t even know she was pregnant. No antenatal classes, no knowledge of what to do, no nothing. She’s hysterical. Crew reckon she’s about seven months gone, and the contractions are about fifteen minutes apart. We’ve got a midwife standing by and the delivery suite is ready. But something tells me we’re going to need a doctor.’

  Megan swallowed half the tea in one gulp. ‘Just let me wash my face,’ she said.

  She slipped on her shoes and pulled a comb through her hair. She was getting used to late-night calls, to sleep being interrupted. Any doctor had to be able to cope at any hour of the day or night. ‘Why especially do you think we’re going to need a doctor?’ Even though half asleep she’d noted Liz’s grave tone.

  ‘She says she slipped and fell downstairs. The crew think she might have thrown herself down on purpose.’

  Megan groaned. Women trying to procure their own abortions were much less frequent these days. But occasionally it happened, and falling downstairs was a common way. Usually it was the very young, or the very uneducated, and the results were almost always catastrophic. A normal, simple birth could turn into a surgical nightmare. Surely there was someone they could call on for help? This wasn’t the time for such thoughts.

  The yelling teenager was taken straight to the delivery suite. Megan tried to calm her and take down a few details, while Stella Robinson made the first inspection. Stella Robinson was the midwife and very experienced, and Megan had learned much from her. Technically the midwife was in charge in the delivery suite, but in practice both doctor and midwife usually agreed on any course of action.

  This young girl hadn’t been booked in. There was no medical history, none of the notes so necessary for a quick and safe delivery. They didn’t even know what blood type she was. Megan would have to have it cross-matched urgently.

  Stella had attached the CTG – the cardiotocograph monitor – to the girl’s abdomen. Both women looked at the trace showing the baby’s heart rate. It was too steady. They looked at each other but said nothing. Stella proceeded with the baseline observations – pulse, blood pressure, temperature, and respiration – and noted them down.

  ‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’ Megan asked. ‘I’m afraid we don’t know anything about you yet. I’m Megan and this is Stella.’

  ‘Sandra Jones. Ow, it hurts! What is she doing to me?’

  ‘She’s trying to see what you’ve done to yourself,’ Megan said, a little sternly. Stella was now quickly looking at the rest of Sandra’s body to see if there were any other major traumas. Apparently not. Grazes and bruising were all she could find.

  ‘We need to get in touch with your parents,’ Megan went on. ‘The paramedics said they are away from home.’

  ‘I want my mother!’ Sandra screamed. Then she gave Megan an address.

  ‘She’s bleeding,’ Stella said quietly, ‘bright red, fresh blood.’

  There was no need to confer. Both of them knew that this was a real emergency. ‘Shall I phone whoever’s on duty?’ Megan asked.

  Stella had to decide. ‘Do it now. I’d say she needs a section.’

  As well as an SHO, there was always a senior member of medical staff on call. Megan checked the roster, and found that tonight it was the consultant himself. Christopher Firth was sleeping in the hospital. She felt a touch of malicious pleasure – if she had to get out of bed, so could he. He answered on the second ring of the phone, but his voice was still sleepy. ‘Firth here. Problems?’

  Formally, she said, ‘This is Dr Taylor. I’m in the delivery suite. We have a young mother-to-be brought in by ambulance, aged sixteen. She’d fallen downstairs. I would say about thirty weeks. She’s bleeding fresh red blood, not much dilatation, about two centimetres. Head not engaged, strong on palpation, baby has a poor CTG. Blood pressur
e dropping.’

  He was instantly alert. ‘I’ll be down in ten minutes. Crash bleep the theatre team – we’ll make a final decision in there. And you’re holding something back, aren’t you?’

  ‘We’ve never seen her before. No history, no blood type, no nothing.’

  ‘The problems we get, Megan. Get to it.’

  Babies came at all sorts on awkward times so there was always a crash theatre team available. Within minutes they were all scrubbing up. There was an anaesthetist and his helper, the ODA. Stella would act as scrub nurse and midwife. A runner was available to get anything that might be needed urgently and there was an ANNP – an advanced neonatal practitioner – to take the baby and deal with it if there were problems. Christopher would perform the operation, and Megan would assist.

  Fifteen minutes later they were all assembled in Theatre. Christopher took up his scalpel. ‘Let’s hope we’re lucky,’ he said. It sounded like a prayer. He made the first incision.

  They were lucky. It only took a few minutes before Christopher handed a sticky, wailing handful to the ANNP. She looked quickly and nodded to the group gathered round the table. Just for a moment Megan looked up. Everyone wore masks, of course, but she could tell by the eyes most of them were smiling. ‘Like to help me close?’ Christopher asked her.

  ‘Bleep Taylor here if anything comes up,’ he said cheerfully to Liz half an hour later, ‘and in her turn she can call me. But I think everything will be all right. Right now the two of us are going to find somewhere to sit in comfort and have a middle-of-the-night drink.’

  ‘We are?’ Megan asked him.

  ‘Well, I don’t feel like going straight back to bed. And I suspect you don’t either. We’ll go to the consultants’ common room and have a coffee or something. The chairs there are more comfortable than anywhere else.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, and followed him to the darkened room. There was coffee and tea available twenty-four hours a day in the consultants’ common room, so he fetched her a cup and a plate of the expensive biscuits the consultants allowed themselves.

  ‘You were on duty today,’ he said. ‘I passed the end of the ward again and saw you. And now I find you on call at night. No wonder you look tired. When I looked at the roster I found that it should have been young Powers.’

  ‘We swap about a bit,’ she said, taking an ornately wrapped biscuit from the plate. ‘We help each other out. He asked me this morning if I would do it.’

  ‘Good. When have you arranged that he takes a shift for you?’

  Megan looked at him irritably. ‘It doesn’t happen like that. We’re a team, like I said. We help each other out.’

  ‘Right. I’m going to do it again. I’m going to ask two questions and you don’t have to answer. One, how many times have you stood in for him? Two, how many times has he paid you back?’

  She took a deep breath, then let it out in exasperation. ‘Can’t we just leave it that I’m happy with the situation?’ she asked.

  ‘That answers both questions. Your trouble, Megan, is that I can tell what you’re thinking. I’m glad you’re a member of the team, but don’t confuse team loyalty with being dumped on.’

  ‘Look, I’m a big girl, I can make my own decisions. It’s quite proper for me to take other people’s shifts, and make whatever arrangements I like about it. As long as you’re happy that the work is done properly, then that’s your only concern. Just don’t interfere. Right?’

  He grinned. ‘I’m the consultant, I’m God,’ he said. ‘I concern myself with whatever I want. But I’ll do what you’re trying to ask. I won’t lean on Powers. Not this time. But you make sure he repays you. He’ll respect you more for it.’

  ‘I was very interested in the operation we just finished,’ she said. ‘Why did you …?’

  Chapter Two

  Megan didn’t hear or see anything of Christopher Firth for the next three days. There were rumours, as ever, that he’d been seen visiting the hospital CEO, the chief executive officer, and had come out frowning. External auditors were being sent in by the NHS, and the police had been informed. All nonsense, of course. Megan followed his advice and said nothing.

  She phoned St Leonard’s Hospital in the city centre every so often and asked about Charles. The staff there all knew her now so they were helpful, but there was nothing they could say. She had trained with one of the SHOs there, Jack Bentley. Charles’s state was much the same – no better, no worse. But she knew that the longer he stayed in a coma, the smaller his chances were of ever coming out of it.

  When she could she visited him. He lay in a side ward, the cables snaking from the bed to the array of machines by his side. There was the oscilloscope for the electro-cardiograph, the temperature, blood-pressure and pulse monitors, and the blood-chemistry unit. All observations once performed by nurse or doctor were now being done continuously by electronic gadgetry. All familiar to her, she ordered their use every day. But when they were connected to her friend it was different.

  She sat, holding his frail hand, looking at the peaceful face. It wasn’t the face of a man who would deliberately have stolen. Nothing anyone could say would persuade her that it was.

  ‘You’re the first visitor in three days,’ Jack told her. ‘I know he’s got no family, but I thought he would have a few more friends than I’ve seen. Isn’t he in some sort of trouble at the hospital?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ Megan said. ‘Just a few loose ends. His stroke took everyone by surprise – though I suppose it shouldn’t have.’

  Friends, she thought bitterly to herself. People had wanted to be his friend while he’d been a successful, powerful consultant. And now?

  The next night she worked on the ward until after eight as there was so much to do. But she enjoyed the work so she was happy. Just as she was finishing writing up the last report she was surprised to find Christopher peering around the door. ‘What d’you want?’ she asked gracelessly.

  ‘I don’t want anything much.’ He came into the room, dressed as he’d been the first time she’d seen him, in the formal dark suit of the consultant. ‘I’ve been at a meeting, and towards the end I got this unnerving feeling that what we were talking about had nothing at all to do with curing people of illnesses and helping them have babies. So I came down to the ward. I thought I might just have a squint at young Sandra Jones and her new son.’

  ‘New son Robert,’ she told him. ‘Sandra decided on the name today. She was asleep half an hour ago, but if you want to examine –’

  ‘No. There’s no problem, is there?’

  ‘None at all. Mother and child doing better than either of them have any right to expect.’

  ‘Let’s find a nurse, then. All I want is a look.’

  In fact, he did glance at the notes Megan had carefully compiled, but he was more interested in the sleeping Mother, and her baby in the incubator. He said nothing but looking at them seemed to please him.

  ‘What’s going to happen next?’ he asked. ‘We’ve dealt with the medical problem – what about the social one?’

  ‘Quite possibly there may be a happy ending. The parents came in today – they’d been away. They knew nothing about the pregnancy and just couldn’t comprehend how their daughter had kept it from them. But once they got over the shock they were loving and supportive. We’ll have to inform Social Services, of course, but I think there’s a good chance of the family keeping the baby.’

  ‘Who explained things to the parents, told them the options and so on?’

  ‘Guess. It took me hours.’

  ‘Your fault for picking a speciality where everyone wants to get involved,’ he said smugly.

  They were back in the doctors’ room now, where she took off her white coat and reached for her anorak. It had been a long day but now it was finished. Megan shouted a goodbye to the nurses and then set off along the corridor. Christopher walked by her side as she did so.

  He was still irritated by the meeting he’d been to.
‘I know meetings are important,’ he said. ‘The place has got to be managed and costed, but I hate internal politics.’ He pushed open a door and waited for her to pass. ‘The trouble is, I’m quite good at it. I can fight my corner.’

  ‘Good at politics? You?’

  ‘I’ve had plenty of practice. Wait till you’re a consultant, Megan. You’ll know then what I’m talking about.’ She was pleased that he accepted automatically that she would someday be a consultant.

  They stepped out of the foyer into the darkness. She looked at him uncertainly, wondering why he’d accompanied her so far. Was he going to his car? When he spoke he sounded a little unsure. ‘Megan, the hospital food is good enough, but I don’t think I can stand another meal there. May I take you somewhere to supper? Nothing fancy, you understand, just a quick meal together. But tell me if you’ve got other plans.’

  It was the last thing she’d expected. And her reply was equally unexpected, and afterwards she didn’t know how or why she’d said it. She said, ‘Why don’t you come home with me and I’ll get you something? We’re all expert at instant meals.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘I live with two other girls, Sue and Jane. We all work at Emmy’s. Jane works in Theatre and Sue’s a midwife – you’ll meet them both soon. I can scratch you a meal together if you like.’

  ‘Are you sure? It wouldn’t put you out? I’d really like it.’

  ‘It won’t be very exciting but it’ll do.’

  They arranged that he would follow her in his car. When he saw her turn into the drive, he flashed his lights and drove on. Five minutes later he was back at the front door, a bottle in his hand. ‘I saw an off-licence and I thought we might share a bottle of wine. It's an Australian White that I have enjoyed before. That OK?’

  ‘I don’t drink much wine, but I’m sure it will be lovely. Come into the kitchen.’

  The kitchen was large, the centre of the house. When the three women met it was usually in the kitchen. They ate there, watched the small television there, talked about their lives there. But tonight neither Sue nor Jane were in. There would be just herself and Christopher for supper. Megan felt a prickle of … not apprehension, but awareness. She hadn’t spent very much time alone with, well, a good-looking man ever.