A Surgeon, A Midwife - A Family

by Gill Sanderson

  There were people to talk to, congratulations to be accepted. It was interesting that the CEO was outside and was one of the first to congratulate him. 'Our reputation will have gone up tremendously,' he said, 'and it'll be due to you.'

  Our reputation? Jack thought. But he was too tired, too relieved to argue.

  There were invitations to be refused. No, if he could be excused, he was tired. All he wanted now was his bed. Tomorrow there would be time for explanations, evaluations, a running through of what had been done and what could be learned from it.

  He had already made sure that overnight Gareth would get the best of nursing care. He had absolute confidence in the SCBU staff. For now he could hand over responsibility.

  He showered, changed, walked into the corridor and, as he knew there would be, there was Miranda waiting for him. 'What you did was beautiful,' she said. 'So beautiful that I nearly cried.'

  'Beautiful?'

  'That was the word I used and I meant it. Now you look weary.'

  'I am,' he said. 'But I want to see you and—'

  'I have a suggestion. I've never been to your flat and I'd like to see it. You go back there. I'll come round later and bring a Chinese meal for us both. Annie has told me of a place that's fantastic. How's that for an idea?'

  'I can't think of anything better,' he said. And he felt a throb of anticipation.

  Jack had given Miranda a card with his address and later that evening she drove round to his flat. There was a leather bag over one shoulder and she carried a takeaway Chinese banquet in a large cardboard box.

  The address led her to a large Edwardian house in extensive gardens, she saw that it had been converted into three flats. Vaguely she had imagined that he would live in some kind of bachelor flat—nothing as palatial as this.

  When she rang his bell he came down to open the door in person. He was wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt, light-coloured trousers and had bare feet. 'So you can relax!' she exclaimed. 'I've hardly ever seen you out of a suit before.'

  'A man has to take things easy sometimes,' he said reproachfully. 'Come on in and look around.'

  She was amazed by the flat. The living room was large, elegantly proportioned. There was a mahogany-surround fireplace, with a coal-effect gas fire. There was a polished oak floor covered with a rich red rug and matching red velvet curtains. Not too much furniture but everything there was in keeping.

  'This is a beautiful home,' she said.

  'I like surrounding myself with beautiful things.'

  There were watercolours on the walls, Lalique glass on the mantelpiece. A great leather couch faced the fireplace. It was a room that fitted his personality perfectly. The first impression was of good taste, of order. Then there was the feeling of passion underneath.

  'I see you've brought dinner,' he said, pointing to her carrier bag. 'Shall I fetch plates?'

  'No. First, we don't want the smell of cooking in this lovely room and this is only a take-away. Can we eat in the kitchen off ordinary plates?'

  'This way,' he said.

  She might have guessed that the kitchen would be super-modern. Grey slate floor, island cooker, a wall of high-tech stainless-steel units. Miranda thought of the pleasant but cramped little room where she shared meals with Annie, and grinned. But this place didn't look very used. 'You don't do much cooking?' she asked.

  He grinned back. 'I don't have time. But what I can do, I do very well.'

  'And that is?'

  'Sandwiches and coffee. And I can pull the cork out of a bottle of wine.' He pulled open a stainless-steel drawer. 'And I have warmed some plates.'

  They ate. She had little idea of what she was eating, just a vague impression that it was rather good. He fetched them a bottle of iced beer each; that, too, she felt was rather good. But mostly she was happy just to be there and to be with him.

  'Do you want to talk about the operation?' she asked.

  He shook his head. 'It's over now. If there's any problem tonight, I'll be contacted. But all should be well. Tomorrow there'll be people to meet, discussions on technique and so on. And I'll want to evaluate what I did. But for now I want just to be with you.'

  It was then that she realised just what the afternoon had taken out of him. To her he had always been the macho male—quick to make difficult decisions, unworried by problems, confident in his own abilities. Now, just for once, she saw him as a man who could tire, who could even doubt himself. It made him more human. More lovable.

  So they didn't talk too much as they ate. But she was happy to be with him, to smile at him, to let her hand trail over his as she handed him yet another foil box. He needed to relax.

  When the meal ended she stacked dishes in the washer and threw away the debris while he percolated coffee and poured two large glasses of brandy. Then they went into his living room.

  They were sitting side by side on his couch. They had finished the coffee and were sipping the brandy. She had kicked off her shoes, was half sitting, half lying against him. She was happily comfortable. She had made a decision. What its consequences might be she just wouldn't think about. But then the power of making decisions was taken from her. He leaned towards her, took her two hands in his.

  'Miranda?'

  Just her name, one word, but it made her sit up at once. Whatever it was, what he was about to say was important. He was looking at her, eyes intent. Then he nodded thoughtfully, almost as if he'd made some sudden discovery. 'You'll have to tell me now,' he said. 'We have to move on.'

  Tell you what?'

  'I'll put it a gentler way. I'd like you to tell me now.'

  Her voice was quavering, she didn't know how to stop it. 'I still don't know what you're talking about.'

  She tried to ease her hands away from his, but he wouldn't release her. Instead, he turned to face her, his expression intent. 'I know you're hiding something from me. And I suspect that it's not as bad as you think. I'd like you to tell me what it is.'

  She wrenched her hands from his. 'There's nothing!

  And, anyway, I'm the one who gets people to talk about their problems. You're the one who operates and who keeps people at a distance!'

  He nodded. 'Possibly. And you're the outgoing type. You're full of fun, you're popular. You're known to be good at your job. You've only been in the hospital a short time but you're everyone's friend. But I've watched you. There's something in you that I've recognised, and other people have not. There's a sadness in you.'

  She was staring at him, open-mouthed. He went on, 'It's your story. You only have to tell me if you want to. But I want you to.'

  Miranda thought that this was a completely new Jack Sinclair. It was frightening. He was far more subtle than she had ever realised. She had thought she had kept her secret from him—but he had suspected something all along. Of all her new friends, only he had worked out that there was something wrong.

  She sat by his side, her hands clasped in her lap, her head bowed. Then she stood, went .to the hall where she had left her leather bag and came back clutching a red plastic folder. She placed it on his lap. Then she mumbled, 'I've been carrying that around for too long. I've been meaning to show it to you but it's...it's never been the right time and I've never dared and...you can look through it in a minute.'

  She tried to keep the agony out of her voice. 'Jack, you did say you wanted four children?'

  Not his fault, but he completely missed the point of question. He smiled broadly. 'I certainly do want four children. But I'd settle for three or five.'

  The wrong answer. 'We'll talk about children in a minute. But, first, you're a doctor, aren't you?'

  'I certainly am.'

  'You've seen naked women before—seen them as cases rather than women?'

  'I hope so. That's what doctors try to do.'

  'Right, then. One picture is worth a thousand words. And a demonstration is worth a thousand pictures.'

  Crossing her arms, she pulled her shirt over her head. Then she unbuckled the b
elt of her jeans, wriggled them to the floor and stepped out of them.

  His voice was alarmed. 'Miranda, what are you doing?'

  'All right, Jack. This is just a demonstration.' She walked to stand in front of him. For a moment she was vaguely glad that she still was wearing newly bought and pretty underwear. Matching bra and knickers trimmed with a delicate pink lace. Then she decided it didn't matter. This wasn't to be any kind of sexual encounter.

  'I'm not getting undressed to excite or invite you. I'm doing it for something very different and I want you to pay attention. Look at this scar.'

  She had seen the flare of passion in his eyes when first he had seen her in her underwear, but now that expression disappeared. 'I see the scar,' he said. His voice was neutral now.

  He looked at her, saw a V-shaped scar that plunged across her lower abdomen to disappear into the top of her brief knickers. Absently, he went on, 'There is evidence of suturing. The scar is jagged, it's obviously trauma from an accident. But there is also some evidence of surgical intervention.'

  He lifted his hand, dropped it again.

  'You can palpate if you want.'

  'I didn't want to palpate, I wanted to touch. There is a difference. You told me you were in a car crash, Miranda. It was obviously a bad one.'

  'Yes, I was in a car crash. I got spiked on one of the windscreen pillars. And I was the lucky one. I lost a lot of blood and I had to have surgery. In fact, I was lucky to survive.'

  Now this was the hard part and she felt the tears welling into her eyes. 'Look where the gash was, think what's underneath! What is delicately called my reproductive system. And it had a great steel bar pushed right through the middle of it. Lots of blood vessels, nerves, various other tubes got cut, smashed. The surgeon stitched me together as best he could, but he couldn't repair everything. The uterus is fine. In fact, I still have periods—isn't that a joke! But there was so much damage that I can never have children. And I love them! Sometime I ache for them!'

  And now for the final, obvious declaration. 'Jack, I could never have your children!'

  He stood, pulled her to him and held her in a grip that half promised that everything would be well. His lips found her cheek; he kissed the tears now streaming down her face. It was a while before he spoke, and when he did the tenderness in his voice made her cry again. 'My poor Miranda. God, how I feel for you. Here, sit by me. You don't have to talk, just let me hold you.'

  She did as he said. He put his arms around her and she curled up to him, longing for the feel of his body but wanting comfort rather than passion. And he was comforting. 'I'll just lie here,' she murmured, 'but you're to look through that folder.'

  'What is it?'

  'A copy of my case notes. Please, I want you to just glance through it. I want you to know everything.

  So she lay there and dutifully he scanned the contents of the red folder. Then he tossed it onto the floor. 'Miranda, Miranda,' he whispered. 'This is just the account of a terrible accident. But now you are well. You've recovered.'

  'Some of me is recovered. Some of me is still damaged. And that wound will never heal. You can wound the spirit as well as the body, Jack.'

  'You're strong enough to recover from any wound. Wound to the spirit or the body.'

  It was so good to lie with him but she knew she had to move on. She wriggled out of his arms, reached for the brandy decanter and poured some into their now empty glasses. She handed a glass to Jack, raised the other to her own lips. -'You've had a shock,' she said. 'Perhaps it wasn't fair of me to tell you just after you'd finished that operation. It's been hard on me, talking to you. And I'm going to make it harder. Jack, not ten minutes ago you told me that you wanted four children.

  You'd settle for three or five. Now you know. I can't give you any. Jack, we have no future.'

  'Oh, yes, we have! Miranda, I can't imagine a future without you. I need you and you need me! Children or not, we are going to be together!'

  This was the old Jack back. In a way it was comforting to hear that absolute certainty, to know that obstacles were there merely to be overcome. But this occasion was different.

  She stopped, gave him a deep, soul-searching kiss. 'You can do something for me,' she said. 'We forget everything till tomorrow. No arguments, no plans, no promises. We just have tonight and each other. I want to stay with you. Jack, I so much want to stay with you. Where's your bedroom?'

  'Across the hall. There's an en suite. Shall I—?'

  'You give me fifteen minutes. Then come to bed.'

  She had told him. It had been as simple, as easy—and as painful—as that. But she had the feeling that some kind of great decision had been made, that after tonight things between them would never be the same. What kind of future could they...? She decided not to think of the future. For now she would live for the day—or the night.

  But, still, she was frightened. Just a little.

  His bedroom was just as she might have expected it to be. A double bed—fortunately. A comfortable room, elegant but lived in. There was subdued lighting, a glorious golden rug on the floor, a pile of books by the bed. A set of photographs of his mother and the twins. She felt at home here.

  In her leather bag she had brought all that she might need. Her toiletries, a change of underwear, even a blue lace nightie she had bought but never worn. A frivolous purchase. Was she going to need a nightie? She blushed at the thought.

  A quick shower in his bathroom—another high-tech room—the usual night-time routine. She contemplated her nightie, then left it tumbling out of her bag. There if she needed it. One bedside lamp left on. Then she slipped into his bed.

  He came on time. Her voice shook a little as she said, 'Sometimes I think we spend too much time talking. So don't say anything, just get ready and come to bed with me.'

  'Miranda, I—'

  'Jack, I'm waiting here for you.'

  He came out of the bathroom in a short towelling gown. 'You'll be too hot in that. Take it off,' she mumbled. Then she looked at the ceiling as the bed swayed and his naked body slid in beside hers.

  He kissed her—a demanding, passionate kiss that told her of his desperation, his hunger for her. His body pressed against hers. She felt the hard muscles of his arms, chest and thighs, felt his obvious need for her. She could smell the freshness of his body, hear his deep breathing. And her own body responded. She felt the tightness in her breasts, the soft warm moistness between her legs.

  'Jack,' she muttered, her voice hoarse, 'I can feel the tension in you. I know what you want. I know you're a kind, sharing man. But now, now I just want to give myself to you. Jack, I want you quickly.'

  His voice was hoarse, too. 'Sweetheart, I want to share—'

  'Please, Jack. Now!'

  He needed no further encouragement. She felt swept away by his sheer masculinity, managed to anticipate his every need, moved her body in time with his so she could give him just what he needed. And so quickly came that echoing cry as he reached a frenzied climax.

  She smiled in the semi-darkness.

  Now he lay half-across her, his chest heaving, his body heated. She curled her fingers in his hair, kissed him gently on the cheek. With her spare hand she stroked his back.

  'You're wonderful to me,' he said.

  'And you're wonderful to me, too. Now, go to sleep.'

  A moment later he had done just that. And she smiled again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  She slept well. Next morning Miranda thought she woke early but to her vague dismay, when she reached out to Jack, he had disappeared. She flicked on the bedside light, sat up to look around. No Jack.

  The bedroom door opened. He walked in, dressed in the towelling gown, carrying a tray. And the most wonderful smell was coming from the tray. Coffee!

  Modestly, she pulled up the bedclothes to cover herself. He put the tray on the bedside table, leaned forward and pulled the bedclothes down again. 'I can't think of anything I'd rather see first thing in the morning,' he s
aid, then quickly kissed her. 'We'll have coffee in bed.'

  'I should have brought you coffee in bed. Then we could have pretended it was your birthday.'

  'It nearly is my birthday. Just four days to go.'

  'Good. I'll buy you a card.'

  His voice was flat. 'Don't bother. It's not something I care to celebrate.'

  An odd reaction, she thought. But some men were like that.

  A second later, he was the old Jack. He climbed into bed with her, kissed her again and then passed her a coffee. It tasted as good as it smelt.

  'Last night was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me,' he said. 'But now we really ought to talk.'

  She kissed him. 'Doing things is more important than talking about them. We're still finding our way, we're going to have to trust each other that things will turn out right. We're going to tell each other things, now you know what my big secret was.'

  He nodded. 'All right. But you've given me something so precious that I want to make sure that I keep it for ever. Miranda, you know you could have told me before? Things would have been the same between us.'

  'I was frightened of losing you,' she confessed. 'I would have told you eventually, but each time I tried...well, I thought I'd allow myself one last day. Now...' Her cup clinked as she set it on the bedside table. 'It's early. What time do we really have to get out of bed?' she asked seductively.

  He put down his own cup, reached for her. 'Not for a while yet.'

  She was still a midwife on the bank, and today she had been sent to the delivery suite. This was work she liked. There was something deeply satisfying about helping a mother have her baby. All right, it was a sweaty, difficult, even painful process. Mothers took to it differently. Some apparently thought the midwife was responsible for their pain. But Miranda could ride that out. The look on a mother's face when she first had her baby laid on her breast. Miranda never tired of the sight.

  In time the birth was over, the mother moved into the postnatal ward, smiling at the tiny scrap of humanity in the cot by her side. And Miranda could have a much-deserved drink. She went to the nurses' room and poured herself a coffee.