The Doctor's Love-Child

by Barbara Hart

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mulberry with a smile.

  Andrew waited for a moment, hoping the professor would relent. But instead he just smiled superciliously at him.

  ‘So you’re not prepared to give me the address?’ said Andrew.

  Mulberry took his time before replying.

  ‘It would appear that way, Dr Henderson. You see, there may well be someone else involved. A boyfriend. She implied as much to me. As your William Shakespeare said, “Discretion is the better part of valour.’ He tapped the side of his nose with his index finger, hugely enjoying his position of power. The lovely Helen may have spurned his own advances but he was darned if he was going to let her fall into the hands of this confidently handsome Brit. He’d have to do a good deal more grovelling before he’d get any joy out of Alan J. Mulberry.

  Helen had been back in Milchester for less than two weeks before she found herself a locum job. It was in the city centre, at Milchester General, as a doctor in the orthopaedic outpatients department. Her mother worked part time at the same hospital as a nurse.

  The locum job suited Helen very well, keeping her extremely busy and giving her no time at all to brood about what she’d left behind in New York…and about who she’d left behind in Chicago.

  A few months later she met a man called Patrick. He was a doctor from a local medical centre and had referred an orthopaedic patient to her. He was recently divorced and they each recognised in the other their own vulnerability and hurt.

  They went out together a few times.

  ‘He’s a very sweet guy,’ Helen told her mother, ‘and it’s nice to have someone to go to the cinema, or have a drink with. But, of course, we’re only friends. Good friends.’

  Her mother winked at her. ‘You might become very good friends one day.’

  Helen laughed. ‘It’s not like that, Mum. Patrick and I could never be an item because for a start I don’t find him sexy. And he’s not going to be interested in me in that kind of way because I’m not a redhead.’

  ‘Pardon? Did you say redhead?’

  Helen laughed, seeing her mother’s puzzled expression. ‘Patrick tells me he’s always been mad on redheads. His first wife had flaming tresses and he always raves about women with similar looks.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said her mother in disappointment.

  ‘But don’t you see? That’s the beauty of it!’ said Helen. ‘We each feel quite safe emotionally. I know he’s not going to get keen on me, not with my dark hair. And he knows I’m not going to start demanding commitment from him. He says it really is like having the best of both worlds.’

  Helen patted her expanding bump. ‘He loves taking a personal interest in my pregnancy, knowing at the same time that he’s not going to have to support us both when the time comes! The great thing about Patrick and me is that we’re just good friends and you can never have too many of those.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘THAT is the most gorgeous baby boy I’ve ever seen,’ said the Irish midwife, handing the baby to Helen.

  It had been a long, hard labour and, quite frankly, by the end of it she couldn’t have cared less whether the baby was gorgeous or not…just as long as the torment was over and the child was healthy.

  Helen’s mother had been with her during the long hours of labour, and Patrick had called in at the labour ward at the crucial time and had also been able to give Helen moral as well as practical support.

  ‘I never want to have another baby in my life!’ she said, cradling the tiny, screwed-up scrap of humanity in her arms.

  ‘Ah, sure, that’s what they all say,’ said the midwife. ‘And you know what I say to them? See you in two years’ time!’

  ‘Well done, Helen,’ said Patrick, stroking the baby’s shock of dark hair. ‘He’s a great little chap. What are you going to call him?’

  ‘Robert,’ she said without hesitation. ‘It was my father’s name.’ Then, looking across at her mother, she said, ‘I think Daddy would have liked that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ said her mother, becoming misty-eyed. ‘He’d have liked that very much.’

  When the baby was two months old, Helen and her mother discussed arrangements for the christening.

  ‘June would be nice,’ said her mother. ‘The garden will be looking its best, and we can have champagne and strawberries on the lawn and—’

  ‘What if it rains?’ said her stepfather, always a practical man.

  ‘It wouldn’t dare! But if it did, we can have it inside and just look out onto the garden. Either way, that’s the best time to have it. Also,’ added her mother, ‘if we wait much longer, little Robert won’t fit into the family christening robe.’

  ‘That sounds fine to me,’ agreed Helen. ‘I’ll have to check with Jane to see what date suits her best. I really want her to come over and be the godmother. And it will be great to see her again.’

  ‘Who’s going to be the godfather?’ enquired her mother.

  ‘I asked Patrick,’ said Helen. ‘He’s been so good to me and he loves little Robert.’

  ‘I think he’s pretty keen on you, too,’ said her stepfather smiling knowingly. ‘He’d make a very good husband and father, you know.’

  ‘Jack!’ said her mother crossly. ‘It’s none of our business. Don’t start saying embarrassing things like that, and certainly don’t be saying it at the christening!’

  ‘I speak with authority on the subject,’ persisted Jack. ‘After all, I am a stepfather, and there’s no reason why this Patrick shouldn’t be one as well!’

  Her mother shot an exasperated look at her husband, but Helen just laughed.

  ‘Don’t let him tease you, Mum. Jack knows as well as I do that there’s a lot more to being a stepfather than he implies. For a start, you were in love with each other. I’m not in love with Patrick, and he’s not in love with me…and he never will be.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Because I haven’t got red hair, that’s why not!’

  Jack, unwilling to admit defeat, said, ‘You could always dye it!’

  Even so, Helen and Patrick became very close, drawn to each other because of their shared love of baby Robert. Patrick would often spend his evenings at her house and she found his company relaxing and comforting.

  It was becoming obvious to Helen that Patrick was not only keen on the baby, he was getting very keen on her, too. At first she wondered if she should warn him off, tell him that she could never really love him because she was still madly in love with Andrew. But then she began to take a more realistic view of life. She would never meet anyone like Andrew again. Was she going to spend the rest of her life regretting that she’d ever set eyes on him, regretting that her baby would grow up without a father? Or should she settle for a good, caring man like Patrick?

  One evening she had a conversation with her mother that made her realise she had to make a decision about her future—and the sooner the better.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ said her mother as she was doing the ironing in the kitchen.

  Helen could sense that her mother had something on her mind—something that she was finding a little embarrassing or awkward.

  ‘Is anything the matter, Mum?’

  ‘No, not really,’ she said, concentrating hard on the ironing, not meeting Helen’s gaze. ‘It’s just that Jack has decided he’s going to retire at the end of the year. He’s sixty-three and we thought it would be nice to have some time together, travelling around, before we get too decrepit!’

  ‘Decrepit! You’re ten years younger than Jack…and he’s fit as a butcher’s dog! It’ll be a long time before you two turn into wrinklies!’

  ‘So you won’t mind?’ her mother asked anxiously.

  ‘I don’t mind Jack retiring. Why should I?’

  ‘Well, that’s just it,’ said her mother, putting the iron down on its stand. ‘It might affect you. You and Robert. So that’s why I told Jack I had to discuss it with you and that we wouldn
’t do anything unless you agreed.’

  ‘What is there to discuss…to agree?’

  ‘We’d always talked about what we’d do when Jack retired. I would take early retirement from the hospital and we’d buy one of those mobile homes, camper van things, and drive all over Europe, spending months away at a time. Jack would like us to take up skiing again and spend, say, a month in a French or Austrian ski resort. And then in the summer we’ve got a long list of countries we’d like to visit…and we’d be able to spend several weeks at a time without needing to come home after a fortnight.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Helen, suddenly seeing where this was leading.

  ‘We also discussed selling this house and buying a smaller one. But I told Jack that we couldn’t do that yet because we need all the rooms.’

  ‘Because of me and Robert?’ Helen was beginning to get the picture.

  ‘Partly,’ said her mother, meaning ‘yes’.

  ‘You mustn’t let us stop you from doing what you’d always planned, Mum. That wouldn’t be fair on you and Jack.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that, love. You’re such a kind, thoughtful girl. But I told Jack that we couldn’t possibly put our plans into action—selling the house, buying a camper van and everything—until I knew how things were going to work out for you and little Robert. You see, darling, it would mean I wouldn’t be around to have him while you were at work. I’d feel I was deserting you in your hour of need.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, you’ve never done that! I don’t know what I would have done without your help in recent months, but things are beginning to look up now. By the time Jack retires, I have a feeling that Robert and I will be taken care of.’

  The next day, Patrick came to pick up Helen and Robert to take them on a day out to the seaside. As they were driving along the motorway she could sense that he, too, like her mother the previous evening, had something on his mind.

  ‘Well, go on,’ she said, ‘spit it out!’

  He laughed. ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘You haven’t spoken a word since we stopped for coffee at that last service station,’ said Helen, ‘so you might as well tell me now if there’s anything the matter. Is there?’

  Patrick took a deep breath. ‘No, there’s nothing the matter,’ he said. ‘I was going to ask you something, that’s all.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘Helen,’ he said, after a long pause, ‘why don’t we get married?’

  At that moment, Robert began squeaking and Helen turned to the back seat to pacify him. When he was settled, she turned back to Patrick.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked in return. ‘Are you sure you really want to marry me, or do you just love Robert? Because you can always be special to him…’

  ‘I’m asking you to marry me,’ said Patrick. ‘I love you, Helen.’

  ‘I thought you were mad on redheads!’ She found herself joking because this was the first time Patrick had declared his love for her and she wasn’t sure how she was going to take it. Up till now they had been good friends. He was now turning the relationship into something it had never been before. She needed a little breathing space to decide on her reply.

  He sighed. ‘Being mad on redheads was just me being superficial,’ he said. ‘That was probably my problem all along! In the past I’ve been totally ruled by my emotions in my preference for that kind of woman. It’s quite irrational.’

  ‘You may regret it,’ she said. ‘You may regret marrying me, because I’m still in love with Andrew. I couldn’t accept your proposal unless you knew that. But, as you also know, there’s no chance Andrew will ever be a part of my life again…’

  ‘I realise that, and I’m not expecting miracles,’ said Patrick. ‘I know all about Andrew—you’ve never held back any secrets from me. But I love baby Robert, and you must admit that it would be so much better for him to be brought up by two parents. I know I could provide a good home for all of us.’

  Helen felt tears pricking her eyes. ‘You’re a very kind man, Patrick.’

  ‘I’m very practical,’ he said. ‘I’ve worked it all out. We could pay for a baby-minder for when you’re working…you could find a new job in sports medicine, like you said you wanted to, with more convenient hours. I have my own house and a reasonable amount of savings—even after paying off my ex-wife! You may not love me the way I love you, but I hope at least that you’re fond of me.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Helen quickly. ‘I really am fond of you. And I would love to marry you, Patrick.’ She put her hand over his and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  He grinned. He looked so happy it almost made her believe that she was going to be as happy married to him as she would have been if she’d married Andrew. She found herself grinning as well. It was all going to work out fine. She would make Patrick happy, and the baby would have a doting father, and her parents could retire and drive away into the sunset in their camper van. It sounded a pretty good compromise to her.

  When Helen told Dorothy the news, her mother’s jaw dropped in amazement, and then her whole face lit up with a beaming smile. ‘Oh, Helen! That’s such good news!’

  She hugged her daughter, jostling the feeding bottle. Robert clung to the teat for dear life, sucking away vigorously.

  ‘Patrick is such a nice man. Jack and I think so, anyway. He’ll make a wonderful father for little Robert.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Helen.

  ‘And, of course, he’ll make a good husband, too,’ she added hastily. ‘I’m sure he’ll want to prove he can make this marriage work. He’s made mistakes in the past and has the divorce to show for it…but we mustn’t hold that against him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of holding that against him,’ said Helen. ‘After all, he’s not the only one who’s made mistakes.’

  Shortly before Helen was due to return to work after her maternity leave, her mother came home from the hospital with some disturbing news.

  ‘I’ve heard there’s a new consultant at Milchester General,’ she said. ‘An orthopaedic surgeon.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Helen, not particularly interested. She was changing Robert’s nappy and trying to put the clean one on while he wriggled like a slippery eel. Her mother stood in the doorway, not moving an inch.

  Helen glanced quickly at her and back again to the squirming baby.

  ‘Anything the matter, Mum?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said her mother. ‘This new surgeon…his name is Dr Henderson.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Helen, a coldness striking her. She fixed the nappy on the baby and picked him up, holding him against her shoulder.

  ‘I just thought I should tell you,’ said her mother, her face tense.

  ‘I’m sure it’s just a coincidence,’ said Helen, gently rocking the baby. ‘Henderson isn’t a particularly unusual name, is it? I once had a dentist called John Henderson, I seem to remember.’

  When Robert was three months old, Helen went back to work two full days and one morning a week as an orthopaedic locum at Milchester General in the hospital’s new open access unit.

  On her first day back she drove into the hospital car park in her mother’s old red Metro, parking it in the area reserved for staff. She was told by one of the receptionists in the busy main hall of Milchester General that the open access unit was on the first floor of the building. She was just about to walk away when she noticed the list of consultants who had clinics that day. One of them was a Dr Henderson.

  ‘This Dr Henderson,’ she said to the receptionist, ‘do you know what his first name is?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s new,’ she said. ‘Maybe Shirley knows.’ She called across to her colleague. ‘Shirley, do you know what Dr Henderson’s name is?’

  ‘Alastair, I think,’ said Shirley.

  Helen breathed a sigh of relief and was picking up her bag to walk to the stairs when Shirley corrected herself.

  ‘No, it’s not Alastair. It’s something else beginning with A…Andrew, I t
hink it is.’

  Once the morning’s work had begun, Helen didn’t have too much time to dwell on the possibility that Andrew could be under the same roof. The whole idea was preposterous, she’d decided. For a start he was in Chicago, or at a pinch New York…certainly not Milchester!

  ‘Who do we have next?’ Helen asked the clinic nurse as she surveyed the waiting area which was now beginning to thin out.

  ‘Mr Birdwell,’ the nurse announced. Under her breath, she said to Helen, ‘He’s a traveller.’

  ‘You mean he’s on holiday here?’

  ‘No,’ she hissed. ‘He’s a gypsy…only we’re not meant to call them that now. It’s not politically correct!’

  Mr Birdwell, an elderly, ruddy-faced man dressed in rough but not dirty clothes, followed the nurse into Helen’s examination room. He was walking stiffly and leaning heavily on a stick.

  ‘What can we do for you, Mr Birdwell?’ asked Helen, after sitting him down on a chair facing her.

  ‘It’s my knee, Doctor. It’s causing me terrible pain when I do the dancing.’ Mr Birdwell spoke in an almost impenetrable Irish brogue.

  ‘What kind of dancing?’ asked Helen.

  ‘Tap and clog,’ he replied with pride. ‘The hard-shoe dancing. Done it since I was a lad, but unfortunately I haven’t been doing it regular. Not for quite a long time. Then at a shindig last night they called on me to do my stuff and, like a silly fool, I did. I think I must have twisted the old knee. Hurts like blazes, that’s for sure.’

  Helen and the nurse exchanged glances, keeping their faces straight. The idea of this game old gent doing the vigorous taps and knee-kicks of Irish dancing conjured up a delightful picture.

  ‘If you’ll go into the cubicle, Mr Birdwell, slip off your trousers and get onto the examination couch, I’ll have a look at your knee,’ instructed Helen, who was washing her hands in readiness.

  Mr Birdwell’s knee was swollen and Helen noticed some areas of bruising.

  ‘Describe what action you were actually doing when you injured your knee,’ Helen said.

  ‘I was doing the hop and twist just before I swing my knee at right angles across the other leg. It’s quite a tricky step and I was renowned for it. I could have taught these modern Irish dancers a thing or two in my day, I can tell you!’