‘Please do. Kettle’s just boiled.’ She shuffles along to the end of the couch, moving papers.
There’s a rumble and a click and Paul’s head is clouded in steam. He flicks the lid of the pedal bin with his foot, as he discards a tea bag, comes over to the sofa and sits down.
‘So, how has your morning been?’
Ruth utters a polite laugh. ‘Mm, well now,’ she says, adjusting her cushion, ‘how long have you got? This could take a while.’ She’s not sure if she detects a flicker of concern dart across his face, but it soon disappears when she smiles at him.
‘I had my appraisal this morning.’
‘How did it go?’
‘Better than expected, to be honest. The Professional Standards Committee has closed my case on the morphine prescribing incident.’
Paul nods. ‘That is good news. Actually I saw the e mail from Medicines Management. The concentrated morphine solution has been removed from the formulary. Makes sense.’ He reaches over the table, helps himself to a biscuit from a tin, and appears to scrutinise it in closer detail before biting off the end. ‘I’m pleased for you, Ruth. Nobody deserves to go through all that stress. Things have to go through official channels, I get that. It’s just a shame that it has to take so long.’ There’s a genuine warmth in his expression.
She clears her throat. ‘But that wasn’t the main drama of the morning.’
He narrows his eyes a fraction. ‘What do you mean?’
‘D’you know Bryony Marsh? Twenty-eight-year old mother of two kids. Lives on the Bramwell Estate?’
Paul looks puzzled. ‘Tell me more.’
‘She brought in her seven-month-old baby over lunchtime. We were closed but Julie heard her battering on the door. Turns out the baby was in extremis. Meningococcal septicaemia, I’m sure of it. Purpuric rash, bulging fontanelle, grunting, rigid, had the full complement.’
‘Dear God. What happened?’
‘We resuscitated the baby in the Treatment Room. Alison, my appraiser, gave me a hand.’
‘Thank goodness you were here.’
‘Mm, I just hope he survives.’ Ruth’s voice starts to waver. ‘But there’s something else you should know.’
‘There is?’
‘The child. It’s Alan Tremayne’s son. Margaret Tremayne’s grandchild.’
Paul leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, his chin cupped in his hands. Ruth can sense his thought processes at work.
‘Ah, of course. Yes, I know the family well. I just didn’t make the connection when you told me the mum’s name. She’s got another child who’s about three. I referred the kid to the cardiologists for a persistent cardiac murmur. Turns out it was innocent.’
Ruth’s eyes widen. ‘Really? I wasn’t aware of that. That might explain why he feels so strongly about his mother’s case.’
‘Maybe.’ He stands up and smooths his trousers. ‘Goodness, you could have done without that excitement this morning. Well done.’ He starts to walk away then thinks better of it and turns round. ‘Do you want me to follow up the case this afternoon?’
‘I’m going to ring the hospital later. Thanks for offering but I can handle it.’
‘Well, keep me posted, won’t you?’ he says, and he hurries out of the room.
Ruth glances at her watch. Just after two o’clock. It’s so tempting to kick off her shoes and stretch out on the sofa but she knows she’d fall asleep and that’s such a waste of her afternoon off. After this morning’s drama she hasn’t the energy to do much else. She decides to check her messages. Fuck. Her phone. She’d been meaning to check. She removes her phone from the carrier bag and switches it on. Four missed calls from Dom. Four? One voicemail. But it’s not from Dom. Just her local garage advising that her MOT is due. She rings Dom. It goes straight through to voicemail. She hesitates, then leaves a message.
‘Darling, it’s Ruth. Sorry I missed your calls. I had to switch my phone off for my appraisal. Hope everything’s okay. I’ll try again later.’
She looks at the call history. Four calls sent over the space of two hours. Her plan for her afternoon off is now very clear.
21
Ruth
Ruth reaches the roundabout onto the by-pass and turns left, instead of right. Flicking her attention between the clock and the speedometer she accelerates so she can reach Byefield before Dominic leaves to pick Bella up from school.
There’s an afternoon drama on the radio about domestic violence. Ruth tightens her hands round the steering wheel, only loosening her grip when she comes to a standstill at a red traffic light.
Ten minutes later she turns down the High Street, past the Rose and Crown, along the perimeter of the park and into Tindall St.
Cars are parked on either side of the street of Victorian townhouses, leaving room for only one line of traffic. She sighs in frustration when she sees a bin lorry sibilating along the road, like a bronchitic pausing for breath every few minutes. Squeezing her car into a gap on the roadside, she walks the last few hundred yards.
As she circumvents the wheelie bins obstructing the pavement it’s obvious that it isn’t just the rubbish truck that is holding up the traffic. An ambulance is stationary further up the street, its back doors open and blue light flashing. Ruth quickens her step then breaks into a trot when she realises it’s parked outside number twenty three and Dominic’s front door is wide open.
The pounding of her heart seems to fill her entire chest cavity, squeezing the breath out of her. She swings back the wrought iron gate and bounds up the stone steps to the front door, catching hold of the balustrade, as she stumbles in her haste.
‘Dominic? Dominic!’ she shouts.
A woman in a spotty raincoat emerges from the front door. She stops when she sees Ruth, her eyes flashing.
‘The ambulance,’ gasps Ruth. ‘What happened?’
The woman looks her up and down. Her mouth moves like a guppy coming up for air but no words emerge.
‘I’m a doctor,’ says Ruth, clutching the woman’s arm. ‘Maybe I can help?’
The woman’s features harden. ‘Are you Ruth?’
Ruth nods.
‘Thank goodness you’re here. I’m Courtney. Babysitter. I dropped in on my way home from school. Dominic had already called the ambulance. They’re with Bella now. I better get going now that I’m no longer needed.’
‘Oh my God,’ says Ruth, pushing past Courtney.
Shuffling backwards, whilst holding the steel rim of a chair, is a figure in a green uniform. A second paramedic holds the opposite edge of the frame and gives directions, as they navigate a route outside. They halt as Ruth enters. A head appears, filling the gap at the top of the basement stairs. Dominic’s face is ashen, his eyes flash with alarm. Ruth looks down at the ambulance personnel’s precious cargo and sees a small figure, like a mannequin, her face covered with an oxygen mask, her chest inflated like the stretched skin of a new football. Bella.
Ruth stands to one side and lets the paramedics pass.
Dominic tugs at Ruth’s arm. ‘Asthma,’ he says. ‘Her cold had got worse over the last twenty four hours. I kept her off school this morning…but…this afternoon…she couldn’t breathe’ His words escape in a brittle staccato. She takes his arm and follows Bella outside to the ambulance.
‘How is she?’ she asks the paramedic, as he lifts the chair into the back of the ambulance and secures it. The ambulance man looks across at Dominic.
‘It’s okay. She’s a doctor.’ Dominic says. ‘You can explain.’
‘Acute bronchospasm,’ replies the paramedic, ‘Sats have improved with a nebuliser and she’s had steroids but we’re taking her in so the Paeds can cast an eye on her.’
Ruth clambers into the back of the ambulance, kneels down beside Bella and squeezes her hand. It feels clammy and limp. ‘It’s okay, darling. Y
ou’re going to be all right. Daddy is coming with you.’ Bella looks at her. Her pupils widen like spreading ink blots, her breath barely audible over the soft draught of the oxygen tank. Ruth strokes the top of her head then jumps down onto the road. ‘You must go with her, Dominic,’ she says grasping his sleeve and pushing him forward.
‘I’ll follow later in my car.’ His voice sounds feeble, afraid.
‘Go now, Dom,’ urges Ruth, ‘She needs her Dad.’
His vacillation fills the space between them.
She extends her arm. ‘Here give me the keys and I’ll lock up for you. Give me a ring when you get to the hospital. Let me know if there’s anything you need and I can bring it down for you.’
‘All ready,’ pipes up the ambulance driver. He is standing in the middle of the road and has his right palm upturned against the stationary traffic.
‘Go on, Dom,’ repeats Ruth softly.
He reaches into his pocket and hands over the keys.
‘Okay,’ he says. He looks defeated. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I get there.’
He climbs into the back of the vehicle and the door slams shut.
22
Ruth
Ruth follows the sound of voices downstairs to the kitchen. The radio crackles with static as voices come and go. She switches it off and, as silence descends, she surveys the scene. The kitchen table is littered with papers. Some are piled high in one corner and her eye-line is drawn to the top of the stack. It’s a list and she can just decipher the words:
Script.
Lucky Pagoda deadline.
Arch.Dis.Child.
Pride of Britain Awards.
Odd. She lifts her fingers off the sticky tablecloth. In the corner a pedal bin overflows with foil trays, smattered with rice and yellow stains. Particles of food litter the gas rings on the cooker. Above it is a framed photo of a young woman, looking directly at her. Her shoulder-length blonde hair flies away from her freckled face, as if whipped by the wind. She looks happy, confident, sexy. Madeleine reminds Ruth of when she was a student.
The clock on the cooker reads three twenty. It will take the ambulance about twenty minutes to get to the hospital then at least another hour, maybe more, before Dominic will have any news. She feels an overwhelming temptation to roll up her sleeves and tidy up, but worries that might be interpreted as interfering. So what? It’s the least she can do to be helpful.
She looks under the sink and pulls out a roll of black bin liners. Shreds of plastic wrapping, dotted with mouse droppings dust the shelf. A container of mouse bait has been breached and, as she tugs at it, she knocks a few bottles to the floor. To her dismay an insidious stain, the colour of tinned rice pudding, starts to spread across the lino, and the smell of polish assaults her nostrils.
‘Damn,’ she says out loud. Rinsing a cloth in the sink she mops up the spill, then reaches into the dark recesses under the sink and extracts all the bottles, lining them up on the floor tiles. Her eyes alight on a tall aquamarine bottle. Gin? Why? Why would Dominic keep gin under the sink when he’s teetotal? Carefully she replaces the bottle as far back in the cupboard as possible. Next she presses her foot on the stainless steel pedal bin and lifts up the ends of a black bin liner, as some of its contents vomit onto the floor. She crouches down to pick up a couple of silvery blister packs and looks more closely at the labels: ibuprofen and gabapentin. She rocks on her heels taking this in. Both painkillers. She knows Dominic takes ibuprofen for his headaches. But gabapentin? Why would he take that? She chews on her thumb nail. Poor guy, he must be suffering more than he admits. The burden of chronic pain must be unbearable. She ties the ends of the bin liner together, lifts it, and lugs it up to the front door.
Assorted mail has spewed through the letterbox and, as she picks it up, an air mail envelope catches her eye. It bears the distinctive U.S stamp of a bald eagle and has a postmark from Miami Beach. The address is handwritten and, as she turns it over she reads the sender’s name: V. Zuckerman. Didn’t Dominic mention that his mother lives in America? She picks it up again and, inexplicably, sniffs it for any trace of scent. Then she ascends the next flight of stairs.
Bella’s bedroom door is closed, but the door next to it is partially ajar. Curiosity gets the better of her. She pushes it open a few inches. Sparsely furnished, there’s an old dressing table with a liver–spotted mirror, some cardboard boxes on a pale lino floor, and a smell which Ruth can’t quite place, like a secret held close between the pages of a musty old book. She retreats and pulls the door close towards her. There’s another room, next to the bathroom, its door open sufficiently wide for Ruth to see moving crystals of light reflected on the French grey walls. She walks in and the double bed dips as she lies down. She closes her eyes and enjoys the tranquillity for a few minutes, feeling like a latter–day Goldilocks. A furtive excitement teases her. Dominic’s bed. How long before he relents and agrees to her sharing this bed, as well as her own?
She sits up and brushes her hair free of her collar, knocking her earring which falls to the floor.
‘Oh, God,’ she mutters, as she dives down and pats the wool pile around her. There’s no sign of the gold twist anywhere. Tentatively she lifts the lamp from the bedside table, switches it on and directs its beam under the bed. She cocks her head to the side so that it’s parallel to the floor and scans the area carefully. Soon she spots the tiny golden seed, but not before her eyes have alighted on a plastic bag over spilling with medicines. She flattens her body on the floor and reaches under the bed to pull it nearer. Gabapentin, diazepam, codeine, tizanidine -
A loud chime of the doorbell makes her freeze. It comes again. This time the ring is longer and more insistent. Shit. It’s probably Dominic. He doesn’t have a key. She shoves the bag under the bed and flees downstairs.
A woman stands on the front doorstep. Probably in her forties. Straw-coloured hair, scraped into a doughnut. Mismatched glass beads dangle from her earlobes, others twist round her neck on leather laces. Cheesecloth dress. Crumpled cardigan. She lifts up the lanyard round her neck and flashes an ID card.
‘Afternoon. Brenda Madingley, Byefield Social Services,’ she says, and before Ruth can reply she holds out a toy kangaroo. ‘I found this on the step.’ Ruth takes it and turns to put it on the hall table. Turning back she is met with a hint of cheap scent and body odour, as the woman crosses the threshold.
‘Took me ages to find somewhere to park,’ she says, adjusting the shoulder strap of her bag, which is bulging with plastic folders. ‘Is it always this busy?’
Ruth shrugs her shoulders and feels almost apologetic. ‘Excuse me if I look a little confused,’ she says. ‘Are you sure you’ve come to the right place?’
‘Mr. Peterson, Twenty Three Tindall St?’ she says, pulling out one of the folders and reading an address label. ‘He should be expecting me.’ Her features soften. ‘He is here, isn’t he?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ says Ruth. ‘We’ve had a bit of a crisis this afternoon. Oh and I’m Ruth, by the way. Dr. Ruth Cooper. I’m a family friend.’ She pauses. It puzzles her that a social worker has come knocking on Dominic’s door. She’s sure there’s a rational explanation. And she recognises that look on the social worker’s face. She’s got a busy caseload of visits to get through. She’s wasted precious time finding a parking space. And now she’s got to go back to the office and say she’s had a fruitless trip. Only to come back and repeat the experience another day. Ruth knows exactly how that feels. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she says, sensing the woman’s defeat.
They go downstairs and, as Brenda sits at the kitchen table, Ruth lifts some magazines from the coffee table and places them discreetly on top of the pile of bills by Brenda’s elbow.
‘You’ve just missed Mr. Peterson,’ says Ruth, opening and closing cupboard doors in the search for teabags and hoping that Brenda doesn’t notice how unfamiliar she
is in these surroundings. ‘His daughter, Bella, has been taken into hospital.’ She notices how Brenda’s posture stiffens at this.
‘Oh dear, I hope it’s not serious.’
‘I think she’ll be okay. Asthma attack.’ Ruth stops suddenly, wondering if she’s gone too far by breaching confidentiality, but Brenda is nodding as if Ruth’s telling her nothing new. ‘Is tea okay, by the way?’
‘Thanks, just with milk, please.’
Ruth douses a teabag in a mug, adds a slug of milk and slides it over the table to Brenda.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ says Brenda, taking a pen out of her bag, and opening her folder, ‘but you said you were a family friend. Know the family very well, do you?’
Ruth feels her cheeks colour. ‘I’ve got to know Dominic and Bella quite well in recent months.’ The social worker studies her closely. ‘Only since his wife, Madeleine, died actually,’ Ruth adds, feeling a flicker of guilt. ‘I don’t think it’s been easy for Dominic, being widowed with a young child.’
Brenda says nothing.
‘But it’s not routine to have Social Services pay you a visit, is it, after a bereavement?’
Brenda leans forward. ‘Did Mr. Peterson not mention to you that we had an appointment?’
‘He may have done. I haven’t seen him for a few days. Bella’s been off school with a cold and that’s probably what caused her asthma attack. She’s not a well child. Recurrent infections, problems with allergies. Bit of a relentless cycle. I’ve seen it all before.’
‘You have?’
‘Yes. Oh, I should have explained. I’m a GP at Parkside Medical Centre.’
‘With Paul Franklin and Lesley Fellowes?’
‘Yes. That practice.’
‘And you know Bella quite well?’
‘I do. Very well. Lovely little girl. But she’s not been well. One infection after another, on top of her allergies. Dominic has been coping so well, all things considered.’
Love Until It Hurts Page 11
