Doctor's Orders

by Ann Jennings

  He laughed again before he answered her bemused “what.” “Because they tell me, men never make passes at girls who wear glasses! Now, will you accept my apology?” he asked suddenly serious.

  Isabel found her tongue, “Yes, of course, but I’m not certain whether it’s a good idea to…”

  “See me?” he finished for her with a questioning note in his voice.

  “Well, actually yes,” Isabel admitted.

  “Oh come on,” his voice was softly persuasive, “we’ve got to work together. We might as well call a truce. Let’s have a drink tomorrow night, I’m not on call.”

  “Thank you, but no,” replied Isabel hastily. Feverishly searching in her mind for a plausible excuse. “I’ve already arranged to go out.” It wasn’t true, it was the only thing she could invent on the spur of the moment. A sixth sense was urging her to stay well clear of another potentially dangerous anaesthetist! Although she knew “potentially” was hardly the right word, when it came to thinking of Mike Blakeney, “definitely” was more like it! “I accept your offer of a truce though.”

  “Ah, good,” he said slowly, then he added, “some other time then?”

  “Definitely,” replied Isabel with more conviction than she felt. “Good night, Dr Blakeney.”

  “Mike,” he corrected.

  “Mike,” she repeated after him obediently, replacing the receiver in its cradle.

  Chapter Five

  Long after she had replaced the receiver Isabel sat staring into space. Had she done the right thing? The answer was, she didn’t know. Half of her wanted to accept his invitation, but the other half, the sensible half, urged her to be careful! “Once bitten twice shy”—the old saying kept drumming through her head. Common sense was telling her that he probably wanted a female to fill a gap in his life. A temporary gap surely! Someone like Dr Mike Blakeney wouldn’t be wanting for female company for long and when he did have permanent company it was likely to be another society girl, not a ordinary little Scottish nurse!

  Trying to relax, she treated herself to a luxurious bubble bath before eventually retiring to bed. She wished that she could sweep away the intrusive thoughts of Mike Blakeney as easily as she could swish the bubbles down the plug hole!

  Next day was a busy paediatric list, and at first everything went smoothly. The surgeon was Sally Mannering’s boyfriend, Pete Rosen, an extremely quick and proficient surgeon.

  Mike Blakeney was coolly friendly, and made no mention of the previous evening’s phone call. Glancing at him quickly as they worked alongside each other, Isabel was struck by the unreality of the situation. Last night on the phone seemed light years away, everything in theatre superseded life outside. We’ve all got split personalities she conceded. She enjoyed herself, though, with the children, as usual. Especially with the small babies. Even the unfathomable Dr Blakeney seemed to unbend and relax noticeably when he was with the children. He had no difficulty at all in coaxing and cajoling the little ones into doing what he wanted before he put them off to sleep. Suddenly, however, the quietly ordered routine of the morning was broken by the message that a very sick, two-day-old baby was being rushed by ambulance from a small country hospital nearby.

  “An oesophageal fistula coming in,” said Pete Rosen, speaking to Mike quietly. “Should have been transferred here as soon as it was born, why the hell they left it two days I don’t know!”

  “Let’s hope we can retrieve the situation,” replied Mike grimly, “when is the baby due to arrive?”

  ‘In about half an hour,” replied the surgeon looking at his watch. “I’ll do the next circumcision, that won’t take long, then we’ll wait for the arrival of the baby. OK with you?”

  Mike nodded. “OK by me,” he affirmed as Isabel went over and altered the theatre list hanging on the wall, so that the porters would know not to bring the next patient from the ward.

  In fact, as it worked out, they achieved perfect timing. The small boy having the circumcision had been comfortably settled in recovery, giving Isabel time to quickly prepare everything in the anaesthetic room, when the baby arrived. Mike had asked her for some extra drugs as it would be a complicated case. Isabel suppressed the feelings of apprehension rumbling like butterflies round the pit of her stomach. Now was not the time to get nervous, but she had never seen an oesophageal fistula before, and prayed that everything would be all right.

  As soon as the pitiful scrap of humanity was wheeled into the anaesthetic room, however, she knew that everything was going to be far from all right. The baby was almost dead, and only the quick skillful hands of Mike Blakeney managed to prepare the tiny girl and resuscitate her long enough for surgery.

  Once in theatre everyone worked with a grim, silent dedication, the silence broken only by the snapped commands of the surgeon, and the quiet voice of Mike Blakeney as he asked for another ampoule to be drawn up. Isabel paused for a split second between her tasks, looking at the operating team perspiring under the intense theatre lights, everyone concentrating on the desperately ill baby, perilously clinging on to life as it lay on the operating table. But it was no use. The monitors suddenly showed that the small, fragile heart had stopped. The resuscitation procedure swung smoothly into action, but there was nothing they could do.

  “We’ve lost her,” Mike said briefly, his voice heavy and deflated.

  Isabel looked away. She always hated it when the comforting blip of the heartbeat on the monitor changed to a continuous whistle, as the thin green line stretched ominously across the oscilloscope. Hot tears pricked behind her eyelids, despair and defeat filled the operating room, each member of the team felling the loss in their own special way. It was a sad, helpless moment.

  Pete Rosen, the surgeon, broke the silence, peeling off his rubber gloves and throwing them disconsolately on the floor. “I suppose I’d better go and tell the parents,” he said grimly, “I understand they came in the ambulance with their baby.”

  Isabel watched his retreating back as he pushed through the swing doors of theatre into the corridor outside. “Thank goodness I haven’t got to do that,” muttered Mike, pushing aside the anaesthetic machine.

  “Yes it must be hard,” agreed Isabel, “but I suppose you get used to it.”

  “You never get used to it,” he replied grimly, “it’s one of those things that never gets any easier.”

  Isabel looked at him. He had pulled down his face mask and had started on the task of writing the history on the anaesthetic sheet. The rugged lines of his lean face looked drawn and haggard, sorrow showed in the taut lines of his firm mouth. We’ve all been wrong about you, thought Isabel suddenly. Whatever else you may be, you are certainly not a cold fish. In that moment, she saw, what she already knew in her heart, that in spite of the hard front he showed to other people, he really did care. Sorrow touched his heart just as deeply as everyone else.

  Isabel felt herself warming towards him. If he could care so much for a tiny baby, he must be capable of caring for a woman too. Perhaps being stood up on his wedding day had wounded him more deeply than she had given him credit for. Perhaps that was why he seemed to have such a bad opinion of women; he probably doesn’t trust them, she thought with a sudden flash of insight.

  The gloom caused by the death of the baby permeated through the theatre team for the rest of the day. Even at lunch time the usually lively crowd was strangely subdued. Isabel was glad when the last case was being wheeled back to recovery safely. At least it was Friday; she was not on duty and the whole weekend stretched ahead of her. However, it stretched ahead emptily; she had nothing special to do. Suddenly she found herself wishing she had accepted the invitation Mike Blakeney had extended. Too late to change your mind now my girl, she told herself, think positive, do some letter writing! Somehow the positive thinking didn’t do much good, and the idea of letter writing didn’t exactly fill her with enthusiasm.

  Clearing up the
anaesthetic room slowly, with no need to lay anything out as the theatre was scheduled for cleaning over the weekend, Isabel felt depressed. As she carefully packed everything away ready for the team of cleaners to come in, she wished her friends from Edinburgh were nearer. At least there she was never lonely, there had always been a girlfriend to out with, but here! She sighed, perhaps she had been too rash, but it was too late now, she had burnt her boats behind her, and anyway pride forbade her to go rushing back.

  There was no sign of anyone when at last she had finished and made her way along to the changing room. As usual she was the last to reach there, everyone else had obviously finished and gone. But that day she was glad to be able to shower and change in peace, without Susie and Sally’s chatter. Still feeling depressed over the death of the baby, she didn’t feel in the least like frivolous chatter.

  Making her way from the changing room along the shiny, polished corridor Isabel had to pass the theatre phone, clipped neatly to the wall, a notice board beside it for writing urgent messages. To her surprise it rang just as she was passing. She glanced at her watch. Strange, she thought, switchboard should know this theatre isn’t on emergency take, apart from me there’s no one here! Nevertheless she picked up the phone and said “theatres” in her crisp clear Scottish voice.

  “I want to speak to Dr Blakeney.” It was a girl’s voice on the other end of the line, and she sounded a little petulant. “I’ve been waiting for simply ages,” she added.

  “I’m sorry, Dr Blakeney isn’t here,” said Isabel smoothly, “operating has finished and everyone has gone.”

  “He is there,” said the girl imperiously, “please go and get him.”

  Isabel narrowed her lips in annoyance, the girl was really very rude. However, she answered pleasantly, keeping her rebellious thoughts to herself, “I’ll go and check, but I think Dr Blakeney has gone.”

  “I can assure you he hasn’t,” snapped the girl, “please be quick about it.”

  Putting the phone down and restraining the impulse to snap back, Isabel made her way to the surgeons’ room. She had said she would check, and she would, but she was quite certain Mike Blakeney had gone. The door to the room was closed, and so certain was she that no one was there that Isabel only briefly knocked before she opened it. Mike Blakeney was sitting there, his head immersed in a medical text book. He looked up quickly, a smile of pleasure crossing his face at the sight of Isabel.

  The warmth of his smile made her falter for a second, can he really be so pleased to see me? The thought raced through her mind, then she remembered what she had come for. “There’s a phone call for you,” she told him, “I told the young lady I would see if you were still here.”

  Giving her another big grin he leapt to his feet. “Good, I’ve been waiting for that call,” he said, courteously holding the door open for Isabel.

  As she walked past him Isabel felt her heart slump back down. It had been foolish of her to suppose that smile had been meant for her. He had obviously been pleased to know that the call he had been waiting for, from the unknown girl, had arrived. So much for your overactive imagination she told herself severely. “Good night Dr…Mike,” she corrected herself, walking down the corridor swiftly. She tried to walk quickly, not wanting to overhear his conversation, but it was impossible not to.

  “Hello, darling,” she heard him greet the girl, “of course I’m not angry. You know I’ll always do whatever I can to help you, now…”

  Isabel turned the corner and pushed her way through the swing doors leading into the adjacent corridor, glad to get out of earshot. Her instinctive feeling that he wouldn’t be without female company for long, had obviously proved to be right!

  Once back in her flat she paced its confines like a restless tiger, feeling depressed and unsettled. The drama of the morning flashed before her mind’s eye, adding to the feeling of depression. So when there was a knock on her door, she went eagerly to open it. Any visitor would be welcome.

  Cliff Peterson stood outside, his cheerful face wreathed in a great big smile. “Surprised to see me?” he asked.

  “Surprised, but glad,” said Isabel truthfully. The mere sight of his sparkling, infectious grin gladdened her heart.

  “There’s a mess party tonight,” said Cliff, coming straight to the point in his usual forthright fashion. “A drug company is sponsoring it, so there’ll be lashings of food and booze and I thought you might like to come.” He paused, looking at her questioningly with raised eyebrows, “that is, unless you have something enormously exciting to do with someone else!”

  Isabel laughed and shrugged her shoulders. “Idiot,” she said affectionately, “as if I should be so lucky!”

  “Come on then,” was his reply as he looked at his watch, “we’re late already, if we’re not careful the rest of that greedy lot will have eaten all the nosh.” Isabel followed him, glad to get away from her poky room. A mess party was just the antidote she needed after a harrowing day.

  Cliff linked his arm through hers as they strode up the slight incline towards the hospital. “Everyone except Bill Goldsmith will be there,” he said, “all the operating team.”

  “Not Mike Blakeney surely?” Isabel couldn’t resist asking, knowing what the answer would be. Drug company parties would hardly be his scene, and anyway he had asked her out for a quiet drink. Which you stupidly refused, piped up the annoying little voice at the back of her mind. Just as well, she reminded herself, thinking about the imperious girl on the phone who he’d been so pleased to speak to, and who he had called “darling.” The mere thought of his voice saying the word “darling,” stabbed painfully at her heart, but she tried to put the thoughts from her mind and concentrate on Cliff’s inconsequential chatter.

  The mess party turned out to be fun. After watching the obligatory film shown by the sponsoring drug company, everybody soon got down to the serious business of the evening, namely eating and drinking. The disco, organised by one of the orthopaedic surgical registrars, blared the music out at the decibel pitch of Concorde taking off, the rhythmic beat making the walls of the mess shake. Isabel forgot about Mike Blakeney as she began to enjoy herself.

  As an attractive new nurse and with so many new people to meet, she was never short of partners. In fact Cliff complained. “I brought you,” he grumbled good naturedly, “it’s about time you danced with me.”

  “Excuse me,” with a smile, Isabel politely disengaged herself from the senior registrar in geriatrics who had proved to be an almighty bore. Being a kind hearted girl, she hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings, even though she found his topic of conversation, the current treatment of psychogeriatrics, anything but a party topic! Cliff, turning up, had presented her with the opportunity she had been looking for, and she was heartily thankful.

  “How ever did you manage to get involved with him?” asked Cliff curiously, as they started dancing together. “He’s renowned for being the hospital bore, with a capital B.”

  “I know that now,” said Isabel pulling a face, “the problem was, nobody warned me. I got hooked before I knew it, and then I couldn’t get away from him.” She smiled at Cliff, “Somebody ought to tell the poor fellow, he’ll never get a girlfriend if he doesn’t leave his work behind him.”

  Cliff laughed, “Don’t worry, sooner or later some girl will turn up who’s as intense about the subject of psychogeriatrics as he is, and they’ll make a lovely pair!”

  Isabel grinned, “Then everyone will give both of them a wide berth!”

  “Scintillating psychogeriatrics!” murmured Cliff pulling her closer. The music changed tempo, it was getting near the end of the evening and the disc jockey had put on a slow, smoochy number. Cliff held Isabel close, and she put her arms around his neck and smiled at him. She felt quite safe, no quivering sensations up and down her spine, just a pleasant comfortable feeling. He was attractive, and she liked him, but that was all there w
as to it. Cliff must have sensed how she felt, because suddenly he looked down at her seriously, an almost puzzled expression in his eyes as he said, “I’m not turning you on, am I?”

  Startled, Isabel looked up at him. “I like you Cliff,” she began, “but…”

  “I’m not the great passion in your life, or ever likely to be,” he finished for her. Isabel flushed guiltily, and made to loosen her arms from his neck, but Cliff stopped her. “Don’t worry,” he said, giving a lopsided grin, “I can always wait, and hope that perhaps I can persuade you to change your mind.”

  “I’m sorry, Cliff,” said Isabel quickly, “if you thought I was leading you on, I didn’t intend to, I…”

  The grin he gave her was entirely without malice. “Forget it,” he said, “let’s just enjoy the last waltz.” The small dance floor of the mess was crowded now with couples, and the lighting dimmed romantically. As Cliff and Isabel made their way slowly round the room in time to the music, Isabel’s eyes were suddenly drawn to the doorway. There, leaning against the white painted doorframe, was Mike Blakeney, his steely grey eyes fixed on her. For one wild moment Isabel was tempted to snatch her arms guiltily away from Cliff’s neck, but then reason prevailed. Why should she feel guilty? After all, she was only dancing with him, and anyway she was a free agent, just as he was! Why was it that Mike Blakeney had it in his power to make her feel guilty with just one look? He wasn’t her boyfriend or lover. “Although he very nearly was” that wretched little inner voice again! Her cheeks burned again at the thought of his passionate kisses, and her equally passionate response. Cliff Peterson had said he was not the great passion in her life, or ever likely to be, and he was right; she smiled wryly as she wondered what he would think if he knew that the reputedly cold blooded Dr Mike Blakeney had almost been the passion in her life. She shuddered. Thank goodness it was almost she thought with a feeling of relief. Glad again that she hadn’t succumbed to the temptation of his arms. But it was a gladness tinged with regret.