It was a long way back with the cat litter, which was heavy, clay-based granules, and Connie was beginning to wonder what had possessed her by the time they got home.
‘Right, let’s feed them and make them a bed,’ Connie suggested, ‘and perhaps they ought to meet the dogs.’
That was amusing but not very eventful, if you didn’t count Mickey walking up to Toby and smacking him on the nose. ‘Poor Toby,’ Connie said, trying not to laugh at the sight of the big dog seen off by the kitten.
Mickey then jumped onto the worktop, leapt across the gap towards Connie who was washing up the food bowls and slithered all the way down the front of the kitchen cupboards, claws screeching, to land in an embarrassed heap.
‘Lost your wings, Icarus?’ Connie said, laughing, then added, ‘He should have been called that instead.’ Then she told Edward the ancient Greek story of Icarus and the wings that fell off when he tried to fly to the sun and it melted the wax that held them.
‘That’s silly,’ Edward said with a laugh. ‘He should have used proper glue.’
Connie explained that proper glue hadn’t been invented, but Edward had lost interest in the legendary Icarus. He was much more interested in the feline version. ‘Can we call him Icki instead of Mickey?’ he asked, and she shrugged.
‘I don’t see why not. What do you think of that, Icki? Want to be called Icarus?’
The kitten said, ‘Mreouw.’ Then it sat down in the middle of the kitchen floor, and proceeded to wash.
‘I think that’s a yes,’ Connie said with a laugh. ‘Don’t you?’
It was after surgery, while Patrick was out on a call and Edward was entertaining the kittens in the kitchen, that Connie heard a frantic pounding on the surgery door.
All the practice staff had gone home and Patrick was out. Connie debated ignoring it, but only for a second. There was something so urgent, so terrified about that pounding that she told Edward to stay where he was and ran through to the surgery.
It was dark, but in the light from the hall she could see a young woman, holding a little child. The outside door was locked, but she had grabbed the keys as a reflex and now quickly opened the door.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, quickly taking in the child’s condition. She was drooling on her mother’s shoulder, her breath was rasping and she had a nasty blue colour. ‘What do you think is wrong?’
‘She’s been feverish this afternoon, and I thought she was getting a cold or flu—then suddenly she started to breath really loudly, and she couldn’t seem to get her breath. She can’t breathe if she lies down, and I tried steaming her but it didn’t seem to help. Then I noticed she was going blue, and I didn’t know what to do!’
She ground to a halt, fighting back tears and panic, and Connie studied the child without touching her. ‘You say it’s been getting slowly worse over the afternoon?’
‘Yes. She was fine this morning.’
Connie nodded. ‘OK, Dr Durrant’s out at the moment, but what I’m going to do is call an ambulance immediately and arrange for a doctor to come out with it. She might only have croup, but she might have a condition called epiglottitis, and if she has, I want her in hospital fast so they can get a tube in and start to treat her.’
The mother looked fearful. ‘Are you sure? Shouldn’t we wait for Dr Durrant?’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I do know what I’m talking about. I’m a paediatrician, and I’ve seen this before. I could examine her throat, but the danger with that is that the epiglottis suddenly obstructs the airway, and she could suffocate.’
‘Oh, my God,’ the mother said, just as the child started to gasp and struggle in her arms.
Oh, no, Connie thought. Not now, please. Let me get help. Patrick, come back. I can’t do this, not with one hand!
‘Help her!’ the woman cried. ‘Do something. Please! She’s choking to death!’
Connie hesitated just a moment longer, then ushered them through to the nurse’s room, flicking on the lights. ‘Lay her on there, and put these gloves on. I’m going to tell you what to do.’
‘Me!’ the woman wailed. ‘I can’t! You’ll have to! Why can’t you do it? I’ll kill her. You’re a doctor, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but…’ She looked at the little girl, now limp and blue on the treatment couch, and realised there was no time to fiddle about or teach anyone anything. The child was going to die anyway if she didn’t do something. So she’d be struck off if it went wrong. So what? She didn’t have a career left to protect!
She opened the sterile pack with a scalpel in it, swabbed the child’s neck, and felt carefully for the membrane between the thyroid and cricoid cartilages in the neck. Then, sending up a quick one for a little guidance for her wrong hand, she stroked down the throat over the membrane, pierced the space and inserted the handle, twisting it to open the hole.
They heard air rushing in, and the child’s colour improved within moments.
The mother, not unnaturally, began to cry, and Connie thought her legs were going to give way.
‘Hold this,’ she told the woman, ‘and don’t move it. I’m going to find a tube.’
She fumbled one-handed for a catheter, cut the end off it, took the scalpel out and pushed the soft plastic tube into the hole. ‘There. Now I need tape. Can you find me some in that drawer, and cut me off some strips about so long?’
She held up her right hand and forced her fingers and thumb to splay. They didn’t go very far, so the tape was a bit short, but it did the job and soon the tube was secure.
Then she heard firm, masculine footsteps striding down the corridor.
‘Connie?’
The door opened, and she turned round and summoned up a weak and slightly hysterical smile. ‘Hello, Patrick. Would you like to take over? I’ve just done a laryngotomy—perhaps you’d like to check it out?’
And she sat down in the nearest chair with a plop, and watched him go smoothly into action. He took one look at the mother, weeping in the corner, then asked Connie about the child’s symptoms, what had prompted the emergency airway and if they’d contacted the hospital yet.
‘With my free hand?’ she said, a little frantically.
‘OK. Could you do that now? I want to set up a drip. Oh, and, Connie?’ he said as she was leaving the room. ‘Well done.’
They sat down that night to a celebratory glass of wine. At least, Patrick said it was to celebrate. Connie reckoned it was to steady her still shaky nerves. She’d phoned the hospital, gone back and helped Patrick, soothed the mother while they waited, and in between times she’d run in and out, checking up on Edward.
He, of course, hadn’t gone anywhere. He’d simply sat on the kitchen floor, playing with the kittens and having a wonderful time, quite oblivious to the drama being played out at the other end of the house.
Now, though, Edward was in bed, the kittens were sleeping in their box in the corner of the kitchen, the dogs were stretched out in front of the fire Patrick had lit and Connie had finally stopped shaking.
‘To think I used to operate on babies of thirty weeks’ gestation!’ she said with a wobbly laugh. ‘I nearly had a pink fit when I realised what I was going to have to do.’
‘But you did it,’ Patrick said, from the other end of the sofa. ‘That’s what matters.’
‘But it wasn’t good—and my other hand was totally useless. Unless this scan in two weeks comes up with something stunning, that might be the last operation I ever perform—and, judging by the way I reacted, it might be just as well!’
Patrick chuckled. ‘Silly girl. I would have been shaky, doing something like that. It’s the adrenaline rush.’
‘Hmm,’ she grunted. ‘Well, I’ve decided I don’t like adrenaline. Maybe I’ll take up flower-arranging—can I do that with one hand?’
‘You haven’t got just one hand. You’ve got two, and in time you’ll remember that. Did you know you held Mrs Grimwade’s hands with both of yours?’
She was
surprised. ‘Did I?’ she asked, struggling to remember. ‘I didn’t notice.’
‘And that’s a good sign. Isn’t it?’ he prompted.
She smiled. ‘Yes, Patrick, it’s a good sign.’ She put her wineglass down and looked across at him. ‘Patrick?’
‘Mmm?’
‘I could use a hug,’ she said in a low voice.
He put his glass down and held out his arms, and she scooted along the sofa into them. ‘Oh, Connie,’ he said softly, and his arms closed around her, holding her firmly against his heart. She laid her right hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat, and it seemed to breathe life into the damaged nerves.
Her hand felt suddenly warmer, more comfortable—safer. So did she. She snuggled up closer, sighing softly, and let the warmth and comfort of his arms soak into her.
He seemed to go still, then she felt the tension in him wind a little tighter.
‘Connie?’ he murmured.
She lifted her head and met his eyes, and knew he was going to kiss her again. She smiled, just a tiny, feather-soft ghost of a smile, and moved so she was facing him, her side lying across his lap. Then she reached up with her arms and drew him down, lifting her lips to his.
Heat seared between them, and yet the kiss was curiously gentle and almost chaste. His hands didn’t move, nor did hers, and yet Connie knew she had never been kissed like this before. It was as if he touched the bottom of her soul, and she touched his.
I love you, she wanted to say, but she had to bite back the words. She could only show him, so she did, her hand threading into his hair, sifting the silky strands, drawing him closer.
A low rumble erupted from his throat and he shifted so that his body lay along the sofa next to hers. His arms were round her, holding her against his chest, and his mouth came down again and took hers.
She would have given him anything, but he asked for nothing, only her mouth, so very willing under his, and the feel of her body so taut with need she thought it would snap.
She could feel the pressure of his arousal against her hip, and he groaned and moved so that they lay aligned in a strangely innocent intimacy.
‘Connie,’ he whispered against her throat, and she held him, aching for him, and knew that he would never be hers.
He was going away, and she was going to London, and it was all too complicated for her to bear.
‘Just kiss me,’ she pleaded, and his mouth found hers again, his lips gentle now, not demanding but giving, comforting, and she tasted the salt of his tears on her lips. ‘Patrick?’
‘Don’t talk. Just hold me,’ he said gruffly, and she wrapped her arms tightly round him, squeezed her eyes shut and hung on for dear life.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CONNIE awoke to a fire burned down to ashes, a rug snuggled round her to keep her warm and no sign of Patrick.
She peered at her watch in the dim morning light that came through the chink in the curtains. Nearly seven! She was stunned. She’d slept all night, as warm as toast thanks to Patrick, and the only reason she was awake now was the soft footfall overhead and the sound of running water.
The dogs yawned and stretched and wagged their tails, and she suddenly remembered the kittens and flew off the sofa, almost falling over the trailing end of the blanket in her haste.
They were fine, of course. Starving hungry as young things always were when they woke up, and full of the joys of spring. She put the dogs out, opened another tin of kitten food, dealt with the litter tray and let the dogs back inside, all while the kettle was coming to the boil.
Not bad, she thought, for a one-handed cripple. Once the kittens had all had a cuddle and the dogs had been fussed over, too, she poured two mugs of tea and carried them both in her left hand, letting herself out and fending off the kittens with the other.
Connie rolled her eyes as Icki escaped yet again. ‘I’m sure all our other kittens weren’t this bad,’ she told him, firmly removing him from the sitting room and scooting him back through the kitchen doorway.
They probably had been, but she didn’t remember. She carried the tea, now slopped all over her hand, up to Patrick and knocked on his door. He opened it, clad only in a towel and the remains of his shower water, and took the mug from her with a sigh.
‘Lifesaver. That was my next job. How are you?’
‘Fine.’ She smiled up at him, unable to quell the warm, squishy feeling inside that she got just from looking at him. ‘Thanks for putting the rug round me.’
‘Any time. I couldn’t bear to leave you, but I didn’t want Edward to wake in the night and not be able to find me.’
‘And did he?’
He shook his head. ‘No. He’s still asleep. Come in and drink your tea.’
She was tempted. Oh, boy, was she tempted, but she backed away, shaking her head. ‘No, I mustn’t. I need to shower and get ready. I’m going to town with Edward to get him new shoes, and we need to find a toy for the kittens.’
His smile called her a liar, but he didn’t stop her. ‘See you in a minute,’ he said, and made it sound like a promise.
She went into her room, closed her door and leaned against it. She’d been so close to him last night—too close, really, for her sanity. Still, it seemed she had no choice. He’d needed her, and she’d been powerless to turn him away. Besides, nothing had happened.
Nothing except a meeting of two lonely, isolated souls, each with a whole host of problems.
‘Oh, Patrick,’ she murmured, slithering down the door to sit cross-legged at the foot, her eyes slightly out of focus, her brain even more so.
‘Connie? Fancy a cooked breakfast?’
She leapt up, slopping tea all over herself, and grabbed the doorhandle, whipping the door open. ‘Sounds good,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ll just have a quick shower and I’ll be down.’
She went into the bathroom, still steamy and smelling of Patrick’s aftershave, and scrubbed the mirror with her sleeve. She even looked daft this morning. She washed as quickly as she could with the wrong hand, and then had to struggle to clean her teeth.
Crazy, how such a simple task could assume such an absurdly frustrating importance. ‘They’re teeth,’ she told herself crossly out loud. ‘Just teeth. You’re not scrubbing them for an operation or a film, only so they don’t fall out. They don’t need to be surgically sterile! It really doesn’t matter if you can’t do it properly with that hand.’
She dressed and went downstairs, to find Patrick up to his neck in kittens on the kitchen floor, Edward beside him, both having a wonderful time. He looked up and smiled at her, a welcome in his eyes that warmed her to the cockles of her heart—wherever they were.
‘I wonder how Mrs Grimwade is,’ she said, stepping over them all carefully and resisting the urge to bend down and hug them, cats and all. ‘I expect she’s worrying about these babies.’
Patrick snorted. ‘She needn’t. They’re going to be spoilt to death, I can tell. We aren’t, though. I haven’t done a thing for breakfast yet—I’ve been otherwise engaged.’ His grin was wry.
‘It’s only what I expected,’ she grumbled with a smile. ‘So, have you still got time to cook before surgery, or should I stick in some toast?’
He smiled apologetically. ‘Toast, I think. I’m sorry. I got you up under false pretences.’
‘We’re going to the shops,’ Edward announced, ‘to buy shoes.’
Patrick stood up and dusted himself off. ‘And I,’ he said wryly, ‘am going to change into a clean pair of trousers. See you in a minute.’
While his son was being shopped for and entertained by Connie, Patrick took his morning surgery and went out on his visits.
He was finding it hard to concentrate, his mind constantly going back to Connie and the few all-too-short hours he’d spent in her arms. He’d wanted more. They both had, but common sense had prevailed, helped by the knowledge that Edward had been there and quite likely to wake up.
It was probably just as well. He had to find another
practice, and it was looking increasingly likely that he was going to have to move some distance from London—too far, certainly, to sustain their relationship once she returned.
There was a practice in Devon, a husband-and-wife team, who were looking for a new partner since the wife had become pregnant with twins. It looked hopeful. He was going to ring later and talk to them.
For now, though, he had the joys of Mrs Pike, newly returned from hospital, and her hip replacement. He pulled into the drive and rang the doorbell, and was greeted by the younger Mrs Pike, accompanied by a wall of noise from her mother-in-law’s television.
‘Morning,’ he said with a smile. ‘How is she?’
‘Oh, in fine form,’ the woman said, rolling her eyes, but she looked less run down and depressed than she had.
‘Enjoy your break?’
‘I can’t tell you how much. I hadn’t realised how much it was getting to me.’
He hesitated in the hall. ‘Have you thought that it might be time for her to have more specialist care?’
‘You mean put her in a home? My husband wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘But if there comes a time when you can’t manage? What if looking after her makes you ill?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m strong enough. She drives me potty, but I dare say I can cope for another year or so.’
‘And what if she lives to be a hundred?’
Mrs Pike seemed to blanch. ‘You think that’s likely?’
‘I don’t know. It happens. Statistically, the older you get, the greater the likelihood of you reaching that age.’
‘Then I suppose I shall just have to deal with it,’ Mrs Pike said. ‘She wouldn’t be happy in a home and, anyway, I’m used to her ways. It’s not so bad. It’s the telly that drives us crazy, on so loud.’
Patrick nodded, then had an idea. ‘You know you can get headphones—cordless ones, so she could listen to it with the volume off?’
Mrs Pike brightened visibly. ‘You can? I think that would make all the difference, you know. It’s that constant noise. Do you have to have a special set?’
Practically Perfect Page 11
