‘Well, why ever not, if I’ve got not choice? You should have said I’ve got no choice!’
‘Thought I did,’ he murmured softly, and winked at Connie. ‘We’ll phone an ambulance now.’
‘Next?’
‘New mum just come home from the maternity unit. You’ll like this one.’
Connie chuckled. ‘I liked the last one. Poor Mrs Pike. That was a mean trick.’
He looked at her. ‘It was no trick, Connie. I have no right to admit her against her will unless I consider she’s not in sound mind and can’t make a judgement. If she hadn’t stopped me, I would have gone and called in tomorrow and had another go.’
‘But she did stop you.’
‘Thank God, because she’s the sort of person who’d sue if she refused treatment and then suffered as a result. I’m glad you warned me.’
She chuckled again. ‘My pleasure. Right, who’s the new mum?’
‘Jennie Defoe. I know the way to her house.’
Connie racked her brains. ‘Defoe—are they new to the village?’
‘Could be. He’s Michael Morgan’s farm manager. Nice couple—about our age.’
They pulled up outside the Defoes’ house, and as soon as the girl opened the door, Connie recognised her. ‘Jenny Walker!’ she said in delight. ‘Well, hi!’
‘Connie! What are you doing here?’
‘Helping me find places,’ Patrick explained, but his explanation was superfluous. Connie was towed away by her old school friend, and within moments was cuddling the new baby and admiring it.
Patrick asked questions and flicked through the chart, prodded Jennie’s abdomen and declared that she was doing well, then stole the baby from Connie and cuddled it for a minute before they set off.
‘Gorgeous baby,’ Connie said with a sigh as they got back into the car.
‘Isn’t he?’
There was something about his voice that caught Connie’s attention, and she looked up and saw an expression of deep and aching sadness on his face.
At least, she thought she did, but it was gone in less than a second so that she wondered if she’d imagined it. Then he was all brisk business again, asking for directions to the next call.
It was obscure enough to demand Connie’s attention, and she managed to find the way without getting lost once, to her amazement. And then, of course, the moment was long gone and she couldn’t ask—what?
Whatever could she have asked that could have explained the sadness on his face? ‘Have you lost a child?’ ‘Are you divorced?’ ‘Are you sterile?’
Hardly.
They went back to the surgery, and she threw together some cheese and biscuits before the antenatal clinic in the afternoon, and she wondered if she’d ever know.
Patrick glanced through the stack of notes before the start of his antenatal clinic, and hesitated at Mrs Bailey’s. She’d had polyhydramnios, an excess of amniotic fluid, and he’d sent her to the consultant for further investigation.
He looked through her notes, but there was no consultant’s letter, and, in fact, he didn’t think she was due to see him again yet so he wondered what had prompted her visit.
He found out when her turn came. She was huge. Not just the ponderous fullness of late pregnancy—indeed, her pregnancy wasn’t that far advanced—but the bloated, painfully distended fullness of a rapidly worsening condition.
She sank down onto the chair in relief, sitting with her knees apart and leaning back simply to accommodate the ‘bump’.
‘Hello, Mrs Bailey. You look as if you’re struggling,’ he said gently.
She shook her head in despair. ‘I am. I’ve been to see the consultant, and had a scan yesterday, and he told me there’s something wrong with the baby—’
She broke off, clearly upset, and he gave her a tissue and waited for a moment for her to go on.
‘Did he suggest what it might be?’ he asked, hoping it wasn’t that the baby was anencephalic—without proper brain development—but that it was a more correctable condition like oesophageal atresia.
It was. ‘He said the baby’s oesophagus hadn’t developed properly, that it ended in a blind sac and so the baby wasn’t able to swallow. I don’t really understand why that should make me swell up like this, though. He said something about the baby drinking it, but where does it go?’
‘Didn’t he explain it to you?’
She shrugged. ‘A little, but the clinic was bursting at the seams, he seemed a bit distracted, and to be honest, I was so shell-shocked I didn’t really take it all in.’
Patrick nodded. ‘OK. Right, well, let’s start with the mechanics of pregnancy. In the last part, the phase you’re just entering, the baby starts to drink and pee, but obviously that isn’t going to get rid of the fluid. However, the excess fluid is removed from the baby’s circulation via the placenta, and so if the baby isn’t able to swallow and the placenta can’t remove the fluid, then it just builds up.’
‘But why? I thought there was however much there was and that was it.’
Patrick shook his head. ‘No. The amniotic membrane—the caul that surrounds the baby—produces a fresh supply all the time, so that it’s continuously replaced. In your case, though, it’s just making it and it isn’t being removed, so you just get more and more. Only the pressure of your distended uterus will prevent any more being made.’
She gave a wry smile. ‘Is that why I haven’t exploded yet?’
‘Probably,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Anyway, in a way it’s good news, because at least we now know what’s wrong with the baby. Did he give you a letter to give me?’
‘No. He said he’d be writing, but I couldn’t wait to see you, I was so worried. He said something about an operation when it’s born—’
Again she broke off, obviously upset at the thought of her tiny baby needing major surgery so early in its life. I need to reassure her, Patrick thought, and then through the door he heard Connie’s laugh as she played with the children in the waiting room.
‘Excuse me a moment, would you?’ he said, and stuck his head round the door. ‘Connie? Got a minute?’
She stood up and came over, a curious expression on her face. ‘Yes?’
‘Oesophageal atresia?’
She nodded. ‘I wondered. Want me to have a word about the operation? I’ve done it a few times.’
He sighed with relief. ‘Would you? I think Mrs Bailey would be relieved.’
‘Sure.’
‘How about using the counselling room upstairs?’
She shook her head. ‘The sofa’s low and the stairs are a pain. We’ll go in the kitchen.’ She smiled at the patient and held out her hand. ‘Mrs Bailey? I’m Connie Wright, Dr Wright’s daughter. I’m a paediatric surgeon. I can tell you all about it. Shall we go and have a cuppa?’
Patrick watched them go, Mrs Bailey and a different Connie, fired with an enthusiasm and professional manner that he hadn’t seen in her before, and his heart ached for what she’d lost and what the field of paediatric neonatal surgery would be denied, all because of a stupid, unnecessary fall.
‘So,’ Connie said, struggling with her left hand to draw the anatomy of a baby, ‘what we do is open the chest, join the ends of the oesophagus, close any connection between the oesophagus and the windpipe and sew the baby up again.’
‘You make it sound so straightforward and easy.’
‘Well, I don’t know about easy…’ Connie chuckled, ‘…but it’s usually very straightforward, and if there are no other complications, the baby then goes on to lead a perfectly normal life.’
‘Except for the scar.’
‘It fades,’ she assured the woman. ‘It really does almost disappear as they grow up. It’s not like the scar you get from heart surgery as an adult, I promise you, and even if it was, isn’t it better than dying?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Bailey said fervently. ‘I didn’t mean that. I just thought, if it’s a girl—well, it would be a shame.’
‘
It’s always a shame. It’s a shame it’s had to happen, but at least it’s happened now when we can do something about it and not a hundred years ago.’
Mrs Bailey nodded and smiled. ‘I suppose you’re right. So, will I have to go on like this for another six weeks?’
Connie looked at the hugely distended bump and wondered how she could bear it at all. ‘No,’ she assured her. ‘What the consultant will do, I imagine, is strike a balance. He’ll probably leave you for as long as possible, making sure that the pressure isn’t affecting the baby, and then once he feels the baby’s big enough, he’ll probably try drawing off some of the fluid to reduce the pressure.’
‘Like amniocentesis?’
Connie nodded. ‘Exactly, only they take off rather more fluid! It usually only helps for a little while, but they can do it more than once if necessary, although it will probably trigger labour in some women. At that point they’ll probably induce you anyway—wearing wellies!’
Mrs Bailey laughed. ‘I should imagine they’d need to! I feel like a water bomb at the moment. I just hope I don’t fall over. I’ll probably burst!’
Connie joined in her laughter, then patted her hand. ‘Are you feeling better about it now? A bit happier?’
‘Oh, yes. Thank you so much. It really has helped.’
‘Good. And you will keep in touch with us, won’t you? If you’re at all worried, you must ring or come straight back, OK? Don’t worry about wasting Dr Durrant’s time—that’s what he’s here for. All right?’
The patient nodded, relief clear in her gentle hazel eyes, and Connie wished she could be the one doing the operation. Still, it was just a matter of time. Once the nerves healed, she could go back and get on with her life, instead of living in this empty limbo.
She showed the patient out and went back to her little charges, entertaining them while their mothers were in with Patrick or the nurse, and wondered if any more interesting cases would come in or if it would be all plain sailing.
Not that she would wish complications on any of them—it had just been interesting to talk to Mrs Bailey.
‘It’s mine!’
‘No, mine! Mummy!’
She turned her attention back to the children. ‘Shall we see what else is in here? Oh, look at this lovely tractor!’
Patrick came out of his surgery half an hour later to find Connie sitting on the floor, chucking toys back in the box.
‘OK?’ he asked, hunkering down beside her and helping to clear the toys.
She nodded, her hair falling over her face like a fine golden veil. He had an insane urge to tuck it back behind her ears, but before he could her hand was there, anchoring the soft strands firmly. She used her left hand, he noticed, even though it was the right side. Oh, dear.
‘How did you get on with Mrs Bailey?’ he asked, wanting to see that other Connie again, but she just shrugged.
‘OK. I told her what happens, and she seemed to understand. She’s not unintelligent. I think she’s feeling a lot happier now, anyway.’
He nodded. ‘Thanks. And thanks for helping with this lot, as well.’
She laughed. ‘My pleasure, but you can give me neonates instead any day—toddlers can be the giddy limit!’
That sounded a bit too familiar. He straightened up. ‘So they say,’ he murmured, and stuck his head through the hatch into the office. ‘OK, ladies?’
‘Fine. Want a cup of tea?’
‘Love one. I could drink a desert dry. I don’t suppose we’ve got any cake?’
Jan smiled. ‘How did I know you’d say that?’ she teased, and brandished a cake tin. ‘I made one of my honey cakes for us last night.’
Patrick grinned. ‘Jan, you’re a saviour. Connie, are you having cake?’
‘Sounds good,’ she said, getting to her feet and dusting off her knees. ‘In fact, after that lot, it sounds wonderful! Remind me never to have a toddler!’
They all laughed. ‘What are you going to do if you have a baby?’ Jan asked practically.
‘Send it to boarding school at one,’ Connie said bluntly. ‘I might have it back at ten.’
Jan and Tanya roared with laughter. ‘That’s when the trouble starts!’ Tanya said.
Patrick said nothing. There was nothing to say—not to this light-hearted lot. He took his tea and cake and went back to his room to finish working on the notes.
Patrick was out that night on call, and Connie was just curling up in front of the television when a car pulled up on the drive. The dogs whined, and she shut them in the sitting room and went to the door. The outside light had come on automatically, and she opened the door to reveal a long, sleek car, its engine running and lights still on. The driver’s door opened and a leggy, curvaceous blonde stepped out without cutting the engine. She glanced at Connie dismissively, opened the back door and beckoned to a child.
He slid out, standing uncertainly to one side. Wide, solemn grey eyes framed by dark lashes studied Connie seriously from a pale, fine-boned little face. Floppy fair hair tipped down over his forehead, and ears like little pink shells stuck out sideways from his head. He looked as if he would break at any minute.
He was about four, Connie guessed, and about as different from the happy, laughing children she’d been entertaining all afternoon as it was possible to get.
The woman pulled a case off the back seat, pushed the child towards Connie and spoke at last.
‘Patrick is here, I take it?’
‘He’s out on call. Can I help you?’
Cold eyes scanned her. ‘Are you the latest? Good luck to you. Take my advice and don’t get pregnant. Patrick’s funny about abortion.’
She thrust the child towards Connie again. ‘He wanted him, he can have him. My nanny’s left me, I’m off to Antigua and I can’t possibly take him. Anyway, I imagine it’s what Patrick will want. I only went for custody to annoy him, but it’s got boring.’
Finally, when Connie couldn’t believe she could get any worse, she bent down and gazed sternly at the little lad. ‘Do try and be good, Edward. I really can’t have you back if you upset him, you know. It just doesn’t work, not with Ron.’
She straightened up and looked Connie in the eye. ‘I’ll be back home in about six weeks or so. I’ll arrange for the rest of his stuff to be shipped up then. Tell Patrick I hope they’ll be very happy together.’
And she turned on her heel and left, stepping back into the car and swishing off the drive without another word or a backward glance.
CHAPTER FOUR
CONNIE stood stunned for a moment, then crouched down next to the child. ‘Edward?’ she said gently.
He looked at her again, those solemn, wary eyes, so like Patrick’s, taking it all in. Connie could have wept for him. ‘Shall we go in? Daddy’s out at the moment, but he’ll be back soon. Have you had supper?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, thank you,’ he said quietly.
So polite, so reserved—so unnatural.
‘Well, how about a drink? Would you like a drink?’
He nodded again, and she picked up the case, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and led him inside. He was going to have to sleep somewhere, of course, but where?
There was only her parents’ bedroom, or Anthony’s.
Which would, of course, be perfect. She took Edward into the sitting room, introduced him to the dogs who wagged happily at him but didn’t jump up or scare him, and then she left him with a silly game show on the television and went to find a drink.
He was still sitting motionless on the edge of the sofa when she brought back a glass of orange juice, and she put it on the coffee-table. ‘Here, Edward. Your drink. I’m just going to go and sort out your bedroom for you and run you a bath, OK?’
He nodded, his eyes unblinking, and she went upstairs shaking her head in disbelief. She couldn’t credit the woman, speaking about the child like that when he was right under her nose!
‘Wicked, wicked witch,’ she muttered, and stomped into Anthony’s room, flicki
ng on the light.
Memories flooded her. She remembered when he’d found the rusty old propeller on the wall, out in the fields behind the house, and when he’d won the canoeing race with the paddle on the other wall.
His teddy sat on the pillow, and a row of Beatrix Potter and Enid Blyton books graced the bookshelves, cheek by jowl with mystery writers, political thrillers and medical texts.
It was a real boy’s room, she thought fondly, and then took down the girly calendar off the back of the door. There was another picture inside the wardrobe, used as a dartboard with a pert, dark nipple as the bull’s eye, and she took that down, too.
Better. She made up the bed quickly, ran a bath and went back down.
He was still there, in the same place, but the dogs had bracketed his legs and he was fondling their ears. He jumped guiltily as she went in, folding his hands in his lap as if he was afraid to be caught touching the dogs.
Deliberately, she reached down and patted each one, then looked at the glass. It was empty, drained and put back in exactly the same spot.
‘Bath?’ she suggested, and he stood up.
‘OK.’
She had an idea, and slipped through to the surgery, bringing back the box of toys. There was a yellow plastic duck in there, and she pulled it out victoriously. ‘There! Now you’ll have company in the water. Come on.’
Bathtime was quiet. She gave up trying to entertain him, and instead concentrated on washing him and getting him into the expensive but uncomfortable looking pyjamas that were in the case. That in itself was hard enough with only one hand.
Once he was dressed in his nightclothes, they went downstairs and had a milky drink together, Connie mindful of Patrick’s remedy for her sleepless night and wondering how the little lad could possibly sleep after the awful scene with his mother.
Maybe he was used to her, poor child. How dreadful, to be used to that! He stifled a little yawn, and Connie put down her mug. ‘Time for bed, I think, don’t you?’
‘Will Daddy be long?’ he asked, the first unsolicited remark he’d made, and she was sorry to have to give him the wrong answer.
‘I’m afraid so,’ she said. ‘He won’t be back until after midnight—he’s on call at the night surgery.’
Practically Perfect Page 5
