by Barbara Hart
His aunt’s house was one of a row of terraced stone cottages on the edge of the village green close to the church. Her small front garden was a blaze of colour, with roses round the door and hollyhocks standing in a tall, colourful row at either side. Clumps of sweet-smelling lavender lined the neat path to the front door.
Isabel had seen them arrive and was standing in the open doorway to greet them. She was a tiny woman but she was bustling with energy and life. Helen took to her immediately.
‘You must be Helen,’ she said, clasping her by the hand. Peering into the buggy, she exclaimed, ‘He’s just like his daddy, isn’t he? What a little sweetie. And how lovely that you named him Robert after his grandfather. My brother would have been so delighted!’ she babbled on.
‘Would you like to hold him?’ Helen offered.
‘Yes, please. I don’t think I’ve held a baby since Andrew was tiny, but you don’t lose the knack, do you?’
Helen placed Robert in her arms and she rocked him gently, almost reverently.
‘Do you have children of your own?’ Helen asked.
‘Good heavens, no!’ said Isabel. ‘I’m not married, never have been. I’m an old maid and proud of it!’ She continued to rock the baby, cooing at him. ‘I know people have a different attitude nowadays, but in my time we didn’t approve of single women having children.’ She handed Robert back to Helen. ‘I wouldn’t have countenanced it myself. I don’t approve of that kind of loose behaviour. And now, my dears, do come in. I’ve opened a bottle of my special home-made elderberry wine for the occasion.’
Later that evening, when Robert had been bathed and put to bed, Andrew drove to the nearest take-away for their evening meal.
‘Two large portions of fish, chips and mushy peas,’ he announced as he walked into the house with his purchase.
‘Ooh, that smells so good,’ enthused Helen, who was cutting the crusty loaf that Isabel had left for them. She brought out the warmed plates from the oven and Andrew opened a bottle of chilled white wine.
‘A feast fit for a king,’ he exclaimed as they tucked in with relish.
‘I hadn’t realised how hungry I’d got,’ said Helen, as she speared another forkful of the tasty battered cod.
‘I always find that happens to me in Norfolk,’ said Andrew. ‘The east coast air is very bracing, as they used to say in the holiday posters.’
They finished their meal with fresh peaches and nectarines and a selection of cheeses, which they ate with the remainder of the crusty bread.
‘I must say your aunt has impeccable taste when it comes to buying food. The cheeses and the bread are wonderful.’
‘She makes her own bread,’ said Andrew. ‘That’s why it tastes so good. But I drew the line at the wine, insisting on bringing my own choice rather than take up her offer of a bottle of that home-made stuff.’
‘It wasn’t too bad,’ said Helen gallantly. ‘I think she’s a lovely lady. Was she very attractive in her younger days?’
‘My father used to say she was,’ replied Andrew, pouring them another glass of wine. ‘He also said that his sister was far too fussy about men and that’s why she could never find one to suit her.’
Helen sipped her wine reflectively. Being fussy must run in the family, she decided…not being able to commit to one person in case something better, or someone better, comes along.
When they’d finished their meal, cleared the table and done the washing-up, Helen stifled a yawn.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I just can’t keep my eyes open. I suppose I can blame that on the bracing Norfolk air, too!’
‘It’s been a long day,’ said Andrew. ‘We had a very early start. I’m ready for bed myself. I think I’ll walk outside for a little while before turning in.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘You go up now and I’ll lock up when I come in.’
He walked out of the kitchen and strode through the hall and out of the front door, closing it softly behind him so that he wouldn’t wake the baby.
The next day they set off after breakfast to spend the morning on the Norfolk coast before driving back to Milchester.
They parked the car in the car park of a pub where they planned to have lunch after they’d spent some time walking round the small seaside resort. They pushed Robert’s buggy along the narrow, medieval streets to the seafront and the sheltered beach where the cliffs rose steeply at either side.
Back at the pub they settled down at a corner table where they could find room for Robert’s baby chair. They ordered sandwiches and soft drinks.
While she was waiting for them to arrive, Helen went to the ladies’ to wash her hands. On the way back she found herself behind a man and woman and two boys, one of whom was in a wheelchair. The other boy, Helen noticed, was limping. As they went up to the bar, Helen overheard the man say, ‘Come on, Ben, stop putting it on. There’s absolutely nothing the matter with your leg and you know it!’
‘There is, Dad!’ protested the boy. ‘I can’t help it!’
Helen made her way back to her table and sat down. She pointed out the boy and his father to Andrew.
‘That child’s limping quite badly,’ she said. ‘His father seems to think he’s making it up.’
Andrew shrugged. ‘Kids do, you know. Perhaps he wants to get out of school tomorrow.’
They started to eat their sandwiches, and within a short time the parents and the two boys had seated themselves nearby, the boy and his wheelchair fitting into a space next to the pub table.
‘Here you are, Simon,’ the woman said to the boy in the wheelchair. ‘Your favourite crisps. I’ll put your drink here and you can reach it yourself.’
‘Can Ben have some of my crisps?’ asked Simon.
‘No, he can’t,’ answered the father. ‘You know he’s in training.’
Helen and Andrew couldn’t help overhearing the conversation as they were the only other people in the pub alcove. They looked at each other and silently raised their eyebrows. Helen mouthed, ‘Training for what? He’s only a kid.’
‘How’s your leg, Ben?’ his mother asked. ‘Is it still hurting?’
Before the boy could answer, his father butted in. ‘There’s nothing wrong with him, I keep telling you. He’s just trying to get out of his sports training because we’re on holiday.’
Helen noticed the boy’s face. It was hard to tell whether or not he was making up the story. But she was touched to see that Simon looked at Ben with a big smile and winked at him. This gesture of solidarity appeared to cheer up the other boy who smiled back. The boys looked very alike—they were probably brothers, she decided.
‘Does it really hurt?’ Simon asked in a low voice.
‘It’s all right. It’s not too bad, anyway,’ replied Ben.
Helen found herself becoming increasingly interested in the family and in particular the two boys. She was puzzled by the situation and moved by the concern the brothers seemed to have for each other.
Her eyes moved down to Ben’s legs, the subject of the family discussion. He was wearing running shorts and Helen thought she could detect, even from where she was sitting, that one knee appeared different from the other. She thought she could see a swelling on the left shin just below the knee.
The boy stood up to let his father get past him and in doing so stumbled and almost fell against Robert’s baby chair.
‘Sorry,’ he said, limping back to his own seat.
‘That’s all right,’ said Helen. ‘But are you all right yourself? You seem to be having a bit of a problem with your leg.’
The boy’s eyes darted to his father before answering.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘My dad says so.’
When the father was away at the bar, Helen caught the mother’s eye. Noticing that Ben was rubbing his leg, a pained expression on his face, she decided to say something.
‘Is your son really OK?’ she asked. ‘Or does he have some sort of injury?’
‘I’m not really sure,’ said the m
other, keeping her voice low and conspiratorial. ‘My husband seems to think Ben’s making it up, but the leg looks a bit swollen to me.’
‘Would you like me to have a look at it?’ Helen asked. ‘I specialise in sports injuries and I might be able to tell if it’s necessary for you to take him to see his own doctor.’
The woman was undecided, casting a surreptitious look at where her husband was.
‘I think you should look at my brother’s knee,’ Simon piped up. ‘Dad thinks he’s making it up but I know my brother wouldn’t do that. Please, would you see if there’s anything wrong with him?’
Helen and the woman exchanged glances. The woman said, ‘Yes, I would be grateful if you could tell us if there’s anything we should be worried about. Ben has such a rigorous training programme and I often wonder if that’s half the problem.’
Helen slid out of the bench seat, saying to Andrew, ‘I’ll take a look first and, if necessary, will you give a second opinion?’ He nodded in agreement. Like Helen, he was beginning to be concerned about the boy and whether he’d injured himself in training.
She went over to where Ben was sitting.
‘My name’s Helen,’ she said. ‘I’m a doctor. How old are you, Ben?’
‘Eleven,’ he replied.
The boy was small for his age, she judged. No doubt he’d catch up once he’d had his growth spurt.
‘Can you stand up for a moment so I can compare one leg with the other?’ she asked. As she looked at his legs she could see at once that there was a marked difference in appearance between the two. His left leg had a significant swelling below the knee. As she touched it gently he flinched.
‘Does that hurt?’
‘A little,’ he said, biting his lip and trying to be brave. It was obvious to Helen that it hurt more than a little. She noticed the way Ben’s eyes darted across to his father who was now walking back from the bar, carrying drinks.
‘What’s going on here?’ he asked, seeing Helen placing her hands on Ben’s knees.
‘This lady is having a look at Ben’s knee,’ said his mother. ‘She specialises in sports injuries.’
‘I keep telling you,’ he protested to her, ‘Ben’s making it up! There’s nothing wrong with his leg.’
‘I think there may be a problem,’ Helen said quietly.
‘And are you a doctor or something? Or just a crackpot?’ The man laughed unpleasantly.
‘I’m a doctor,’ she said squaring up to the man. ‘Dr Helen Blackburn.’
‘And a very good one,’ said Andrew from the corner of the room.
‘And what do you know about it?’ asked the man, surprised at Andrew’s intervention.
‘I’m also a doctor,’ he replied.
‘Blimey,’ said the man, ‘what is this, a doctors’ convention?’
‘Just let Dr Blackburn get on with her examination,’ said Ben’s mother assertively in a voice that meant business.
Helen continued her dialogue with the boy.
‘Do you do a lot of sport, Ben?’ she asked.
‘I do a lot of running. It’s part of my sports training regime,’ he replied, as if quoting someone else. Helen had a suspicion that he was using his father’s words. This was confirmed when the father intervened.
‘You need to start young these days if you’re going to excel at sport. Ben’s very good at football and we’re hoping he’ll catch the eye of a talent scout from one of the top football clubs. They spot ’em young these days. A local boy, twelve years old, was signed up last month.’
Helen made a mental note—ambitious parent, possibly pushing child too fast.
‘You said you did a lot of running, Ben. How much do you do?’
‘Four miles,’ he replied.
‘Every week?’
‘Every day. Sometimes before I go to school, sometimes after.’
‘Where exactly is the pain?’ Helen asked.
‘Here and here,’ he said pointing to areas above and below the knee.
‘Is it bad all the time or just during sport?’
‘It hurts a bit when I’m walking, but mostly it’s when I’m running.’
His father gave a snort. ‘That’s his excuse for not keeping up with his sports training regime.’
‘Oh, Dad!’ said Ben.
Helen carried on examining the boy’s knee, convinced of her diagnosis and equally convinced that his father wasn’t going to be at all happy with what she was about to say. She stood up and faced the man.
‘I believe that Ben may have a condition called osteochondritis, which affects the bones of some children as they are growing. It’s known as Osgood-Schlatter disease and it affects the knee.’
‘Oh, no!’ said his mother looking stricken. ‘How did he get that?’
‘It’s caused by repeated exercise and it’s most common in children, usually boys, aged between ten and fourteen,’ Helen replied.
‘Osgood what?’ exclaimed the father. ‘I’ve never heard of it! Is it catching?’
‘No, it’s not infectious,’ assured Helen. ‘It happens as a result of repeated pulling of the muscle at the front of the thigh on the tendon which is attached to the shin. It creates pain above and below the knee and a swelling like this.’ She gently touched Ben’s leg. ‘It gets worse during strenuous activity like running or other vigorous sport.’
‘So he’s not making it up!’ said his father. Helen noticed he’d gone quite red in the face. Whether the man was blushing with shame or just plain angry she couldn’t tell.
‘I wouldn’t make it up, Dad!’ protested Ben.
‘Is my brother going to be all right?’ asked Simon anxiously. ‘He was running for me…because I can’t run or play football…and now I feel it’s all my fault!’
‘Of course it’s not your fault,’ said his mother. ‘If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his!’ She pointed an accusing finger at her husband who went an even deeper shade of red. ‘Nagging the boy to do his sports training all the time.’
‘No, Mum,’ said Ben. ‘Dad didn’t force me. I wanted to do it. I want to keep on running…I want to become a famous footballer!’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to slow down your sports training regime for the time being, Ben,’ said Helen gently. ‘In fact, you’ll have to stop it completely for a while until the swelling goes down and the pain disappears.’
The boy looked downcast. ‘If I go to my doctor, will he give me some of those pills or injections that they give to injured footballers so they can keep on playing?’
‘No,’ said Helen and his parents in unison. Helen smiled at them both, relieved that the parents seemed to be united in wanting to do the best for their son.
‘I’m not going to give you anything except advice,’ said Helen, ‘and I predict that your own doctor will feel the same. Osgood-Schlatter’s often clears up completely without any treatment at all, apart from rest. Rest is vital, Ben, in order to prevent deformity. It’s something you’ll grow out of eventually and then you can take up your sports training again, although I’d advise a less vigorous regime in future. Swimming is very good for physical training, you know. And it might be better for you than all that running.’
‘Yeah,’ said Simon enthusiastically. ‘I can watch you at the pool-side and time the lengths!’
‘Good idea,’ said Helen. ‘But not yet. Your brother has to rest that leg of his. Will you make sure he does?’
‘You bet!’ said Simon, picking up the crisp packet. ‘Here you are, Ben. You can have some of these now that you’re not in training.’
Helen returned to her own table.
Andrew touched her arm. ‘You handled that well,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Could have been a bit tricky with the father breathing down your neck.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said as she sat down next to him. ‘I might suggest to the hospital that we start up a junior sports injuries clinic. We could publicise it through the education department and involve the local schools.’
‘It’s a good idea but you may have to be realistic—these things cost a lot of money,’ said Andrew. ‘Don’t you remember in America how they had all kinds of outside funding for those types of specialist units?’
‘I was just thinking out loud,’ said Helen, pondering the issue. ‘I don’t see why the hospital shouldn’t approach somewhere like Milchester United for funding. A major football club like that would probably be happy to cough up some funds. After all, they have junior teams themselves and their talent scouts are constantly on the lookout for youngsters like Ben. It could be great,’ she went on, letting her enthusiasm carry her away. ‘I can see it now—the Milchester United Junior Sports Injuries Clinic!’
‘And, no doubt, you’ll be in charge of it,’ said Andrew.
‘Of course. You’re not the only one who’s ambitious, you know!’
Andrew stiffened defensively. ‘What do you mean, ambitious?’
She laughed. ‘Oh, you know, wanting to get on, wanting to be a success…’
He wasn’t smiling. ‘I know what ambitious means! I mean, why me in particular and why mention it now?’
‘Well, you’re going back to America to take up that post, aren’t you? That’s what I meant by ambitious.’
‘I signed the American contract before I knew I had a son over here. I’ll be coming back to England as soon as I realistically can in order to be near him.’
Oh, yes, his son! No mention of me, Helen noted. Maybe he’ll also be bringing his American lover back with him!
She bent down and picked up the soft toy that Robert had dropped. She mustn’t dwell too closely on the future…just enjoy what they had now because the last thing she wanted on this blissful weekend was to have an argument with him. There was precious little time left for them to play Happy Families and she was determined to wave him off to America with only good memories of their time together. There would be time enough to be unhappy once he’d gone back to Chicago and his lover.
Andrew checked his watch. ‘Time we were making a move.’
They were walking back to their car and Andrew was carrying Robert when someone called out to them. They looked to see who it was and saw Ben’s mother running across the car park towards them.
