From the beginning Peter and Angela Axton were perfect hosts: friendly, thoughtful, but never pushy. From Angela’s comments I got the clear impression that I was regarded as some kind of visiting dignitary, which was both amusing and uncomfortable. It could only have been Malcolm’s work, bumping up my reputation. It was evident also that they knew why I was there, but they were discreet. Early on Angela said something like, “Naturally, Bridget mentioned your trouble back at Porton. A shocking thing! But you needn’t worry: Peter and I won’t be spreading any gossip. As far as everyone else is concerned you’ve been headhunted for the department for an unspecified term.” The vagueness of my appointment must have added to my mystique; there were to be moments when I felt like some kind of cardiothoracic celebrity.
I spent the first few days exploring the city, on foot and on Angela’s bicycle. I hadn’t been back since my brief stay there as a student, and quite a lot had changed. Here, further east, spring was later in coming, and it was still cool, but as the month wore on the grass grew greener and the spring flowers opened as a weak sun shone. For the first time in weeks I felt safe, and I knew that as soon as I was into the swing of work I would be focused and content.
Before this happened Angela phoned one morning – she was always polite and never called round uninvited – to ask me if I would like to go with her and Peter to a reception at the hospital to say goodbye to a team of visiting researchers from somewhere in Africa. “It’ll give you a chance to meet some of the people here at Brant before you are far too busy with work,” she said. “We can introduce you to some of them. But we’ll quite understand if you’d rather not.” I wasn’t at all keen. Socializing with colleagues had never been my cup of tea, and here I knew no one. But I felt it would be rude to the Axtons to decline when they had been so kind, so I feigned an enthusiasm I didn’t feel, and asked Angela’s advice on what to wear and where I could find a reasonable hairdresser: my hair had grown, its wildness verging on unprofessional.
At five o’clock I emerged from the salon looking unusually tidy, clutching a bag containing a dress I had been persuaded to buy – something far more expensive than I would normally have contemplated. The young woman in the shop had enthused about the colours, so complementary to my skin tone (really?) and I hoped that my weakness in agreeing would not result in me feeling like an awkward over-floral eyesore in an assembly of critical strangers.
The shadows were lengthening as I walked back across the water-meadow to the Axtons’. I calculated that I probably just had time for a shower before Peter and Angela called for me. As I strolled up to my new front door my phone rang. I fished it out of my pocket, frowning: who could be calling? That irrational reaction, puzzlement tinged with a frisson of fear, made me realize that the events of the recent past were still hanging over me like some kind of threatening cloud.
“Hello?” I answered the phone, my tone guarded, and an unfamiliar voice replied.
“Rachel? Hi, I’m Rob Harker.”
I very nearly said “Who?” stupidly and rudely, but then I remembered: Beth and Jimmy’s friend. I’d forgotten all about him.
“Oh, yes. Hello.”
“How are you? Have you settled in all right?” He sounded warm, friendly, almost breezy.
“Pretty much, thank you.”
“Started work yet?”
“Not yet. In a few days.”
He cleared his throat. “I was wondering… well, I know it’s terribly short notice, but I wondered if you were free this evening. There’s a reception at the hospital, and I thought it might be nice for you to meet a few people. I could pick you up –”
I interrupted. “That’s very kind of you, Rob. But I’m already going, with the Axtons.”
I heard him exhale. “Of course. I shouldn’t leave things to the last minute, should I? I’d forgotten about it, to be honest. I probably wouldn’t have bothered going, but then I thought of you, not knowing anyone, and I thought…” he tailed off.
“Well, thanks, for thinking of me. But if you are now going, I expect we’ll see each other there.”
“How will I know you?”
“Do you know the Axtons?”
“Mm, we’ve met.”
“I’ll get them to introduce us, then. Anyway, you could hardly miss me. A woman in a shop persuaded me to buy a dress this afternoon. I’ll be the one looking like a tropical fruit bowl.”
I heard him chuckle. “I look forward to it. See you later.”
Beth had described Rob as good-looking. But she could be prone to exaggerate, and she always thought better of people than they deserved – even of me. However, when I met Rob Harker I had to agree with her: he was very handsome in a curly, boyish, artless kind of way that might have made a less cynical woman wobble. His brown hair, worn long to his collar, bounced with health; his blue eyes, fringed with improbable lashes, sparkled with good humour. His tenor voice was well modulated and pleasant, with no discernible accent. He was just under six feet tall, slim but not skinny; and he was extremely charming. Nothing about him rang false; the charm emanated from a kindly soul well content with himself and the world, or so it seemed. He had the unusual habit of listening intently, sometimes smiling and nodding, and keeping those eyes fixed on my face, as if my banal conversation was the most fascinating thing he’d heard in years. He was also funny, and I found myself grinning despite myself. He had a chuckle that came from somewhere deep inside his torso and travelled upwards to light up his face; and, I noted, a perfect set of teeth. I surprised myself (inwardly) by being quite taken with him, in a careless sort of way. That was also a surprise: I had rarely ever allowed my relationships, few as they were, to be careless. I had ended my engagement to Howard as soon as I’d squarely faced the fact that I couldn’t stomach the idea of being with him for the rest of my days. (A year later he married someone else, and I truthfully wished them well and felt immense relief.) I had never put myself in the position of being dizzy, dependent – or dumped. Chatting to Rob, I had the vague thought that I might be letting myself in for something, but I deliberately ignored it. That was another surprise.
Angela Axton steered me away from Rob after a while, determined that I should meet as many hospital luminaries as I could that evening, but not before Rob had extracted from me a promise to find an evening free for him alone. I remembered few of the people to whom I was introduced. The only ones of real interest were the colleagues I might well be working alongside: heart people.
A few days later I plunged eagerly back into the world I loved, where I knew who I was and what I was for. Gowned and masked and gloved, something sharp in my hand, a draped chest waiting for an incision – that was where I fitted, in this hospital or any other. Surgery, clinics, rounds, lectures, study, more surgery. Complications dealt with, dramas overcome. It could well have been enough to banish the uneasy feelings that sometimes rose up in me, nameless and unwelcome.
Perhaps I was more fragile than I knew or would admit. Perhaps the events in Porton had made me vulnerable. Or maybe I was allowing myself, outside work, to be more human. Whatever the reason, I let Rob Harker under my defences. For the first time in years I was unreservedly happy. Perhaps at some level I worried that I might be courting catastrophe – but I gave such thoughts no room, and before long they were simply engulfed and overwhelmed.
The weather turned unseasonably warm early in April. Daffodils flirted in the breeze, turning their faces up to the sun. Houseboats appeared on the river, colourful and slow. Behind a screening row of conifers at the bottom of the Axtons’ garden I could sometimes hear the voices of walkers on the towpath.
As it happened Thursday was still my day off, and I started it early, almost as soon as it was light, with a run that took me along the river which flowed in a wide meandering circle round the city, a distance of probably seven or eight miles. I saw almost no one – just the occasional fellow-runner, whom I greeted with little more than a grunt or a perfunctory nod. The sun was high in the sky when
I returned, and after a pounding shower I opened the windows and sat in the kitchen with coffee and toast and some learned reading matter. Rob was working, as he did every weekday. He had an office which functioned five days a week from nine to six, and his weekends were free. I regularly worked at weekends, for emergencies or on call, and my days were often long, but Thursdays were my own, and I was glad of the disparity in our schedules: I needed no excuse to have time to myself.
After lunch I decided that the day was too warm to be indoors, and I found a garden chair in the Axtons’ shed and set it up on the lawn. There was little sound except for birdsong, the occasional burst of chatter from the river, and the distant rumble of traffic on the bypass. The spring sun was warm, the breeze gentle and laden with the wafting scent of spring flowers. I stretched out in the chair, my cotton trousers rolled up to just below the knee, a pair of sunglasses perched on my nose. I had a book to hand, but it stayed unopened on the ground.
It had been a tough week, with several long operations. I’d started the day early. Small wonder that in that peaceful garden I drifted off to sleep.
For the first time in many months I dreamed about my father: sweet, uncomplicated snatches and snippets of unconnected events, images that flitted past my mental vision with frustrating speed and insouciance. There he was, on the deck of a little dinghy we owned, standing barefoot with a rope in his hand, squinting in the sun and laughing; then a fleeting image of his denim-shirted back as he hunched over a camping stove, his hair flattened by the rain. I saw for a moment just his hands, capable and strong, holding a hammer, and I noticed the light glinting on his wedding ring. I knew Martin was there, but I didn’t see him.
I wanted more – I always wanted more. But I was jerked suddenly and sickeningly awake by a snuffling wetness on my bare leg; then something jumped up on me, hot breath fanning my face, causing me to double up as I hurtled back to consciousness.
“What on earth –?” I shoved the burden off my stomach, and my hands encountered fur. My eyes flew open and my brain re-engaged. Sitting decorously beside me, its paws now neatly side by side, its jaws open and panting in what looked like a knowing grin, was a dog: a middling-sized black and white border collie, one ear up, the other quirked sideways, and it was looking at me with its head cocked at a cheeky angle.
“Where did you come from?” I muttered. “You scared me, jumping on me like that. Horrible beast.”
This was untruthful: I liked dogs. We never had one when I was growing up, because my mother wouldn’t hear of it (“nasty smelly things, always dropping hair”), but my father, brother, and I would sometimes borrow the chocolate Labrador that belonged to our elderly neighbours when we went on camping trips. The neighbours were glad to have someone exercise their overweight dog, and old Bertie was amiability itself. This collie was a beauty, all taut muscles, glossy coat, and bright eyes, and I soon forgave it for its poor manners; but the shock of its arrival, and the lingering ache produced by the dream, had unsettled me and broken the peace of the afternoon. I gathered up my book. “Come on, dog. Let’s go and see if Angela knows who you are.” I slipped a finger under the dog’s red collar and located a metal disc in which “Dulcie” was etched, along with a phone number.
“Right, then, Dulcie. Come with me.”
Dulcie trotted along beside me without demur as I crossed the lawn; occasionally she looked up at me quizzically. I could see Angela in her big shiny kitchen, doing something at the counter, her back to me. I tapped gently on the window and she turned round, peering over the top of her glasses. She was wearing a blue striped apron, and held an open book in her hand. A knife lay beside a wooden chopping board on the worktop.
She smiled and beckoned me in. With my hand on Dulcie’s collar I opened the door just wide enough to call through.
“Angela, sorry to bother you, but I seem to have found a dog. Thought you might know who she belongs to.”
Angela opened the door wide. “I might have known! Hello, Dulcie, you little monster.” She bent down and ruffled the dog’s smooth head, and had her hand licked in exchange. “Come on in, both of you.” She looked up at me. “Dulcie is very well behaved as a rule, indoors anyway.”
I smiled back at Angela. “I found one of your garden chairs and I was dozing in the sun. She leapt on me and freaked me out.”
“Sit down, Rachel,” Angela said. “Now you’re here I’ll get the kettle on.”
“Sure I’m not disturbing something important? It looks like you were doing some serious cooking.”
“Oh, no; it can wait.” She filled the kettle and switched it on, then rooted around in one of the cupboards for a bowl which she filled with water for the dog. Dulcie lapped noisily and we both watched her.
“So who does Dulcie belong to?” I asked. “Where’s she come from?”
“Dulcie belongs to our neighbour a few houses down along the river,” Angela said, waving a vague hand. “Mike Wells. He’s at the hospital too, a plastic surgeon, very well thought-of. I wouldn’t have thought he’d have left Dulcie in the garden while he’s at work. I wonder how she got out.” The kettle came to the boil and switched itself off. “Would you like tea, Rachel? Or coffee perhaps?”
“Coffee would be nice, thanks. Black, please.”
Angela busied herself with cups and spoons and a few moments later set a steaming mug in front of me. “It’s not the first time we’ve had a visit from Dulcie, is it, you mischief?” The dog flopped down beside her chair. “She’s been known to dig a hole under the fence and get out, so as far as I know Michael was keeping her indoors more. She’s a bright little lass and gets bored, I expect. Is your coffee all right?”
“It’s perfect.”
Angela shook her head. “I wonder…” I waited for her to enlighten me. “I suppose it must be the Easter holidays, mustn’t it?”
I nodded. “Easter’s next Sunday, so I guess so. And I’ve heard children’s voices on the towpath the last few days.”
“I wonder if Jasper is visiting. Perhaps he’s supposed to be looking after the dog.”
“Jasper?”
“Mike Wells’ son. I’d better ring the house and see if he’s there. Excuse me a moment.”
She got up and padded through to the hall. I heard her speak, fall silent, and speak again.
“Yes, Jasper’s there,” she said as she came back into the kitchen. “Full of apologies. Said he was busy revising for his GCSEs and didn’t notice the dog had sneaked out. He’ll be round in a minute with Dulcie’s lead.” She sat down. “Oh, sorry, would you like a biscuit?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
There was a rather awkward silence as we sipped our drinks. Then Angela said, “I do hope you are settling in all right.”
“Yes, I am. Work is very absorbing. And the flat is lovely. I’m really grateful to you and Peter for giving a home to this refugee.”
“You’re very welcome. I hear you’ve been making a new friend, too.”
“What? Oh, you mean Rob. Yes, he’s good company.” I spoke casually and hoped she wouldn’t pursue this line of talk.
“I don’t really know him,” Angela said, “but people say he’s terribly clever at what he does.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “IT’s not my area of expertise, though.”
She smiled. “Nor mine, not at all.”
We heard Dulcie whine then, and Angela and I both looked up and out of the wide kitchen window. A skinny lad was haring up the garden from the direction of the river.
“Jasper.” Angela got up and opened the door. He was flushed and panting. “Sit down, Jasper. There was no need to rush.”
The boy flopped into a chair. “I’m sorry, Mrs A. I only took my eyes off her for five minutes.”
“It’s all right,” Angela said. “Dulcie likes to go visiting, don’t you, Dulcie? It isn’t the first time I’ve found her at my kitchen door.”
“I know. But I was supposed to be looking after her. Dad would be so upset i
f I lost her.”
“She knows her way home, I shouldn’t wonder. Would you like a cup of tea now you’re here?”
“Yes, please. That would be nice.”
“Sorry, I’m forgetting myself. Rachel Keyte, Jasper Wells. Rachel’s a cardiac surgeon, Jasper. Visiting us from another hospital for a while.”
Jasper stretched out his hand, and I shook it. He had dark hair, almost black, straight and worn long, and dark grey eyes in a serious face. “Nice to meet you, Ms Keyte,” he said. “How are you finding it here?”
I was amused by this courteous teenager. GCSEs? So he was sixteen at most. “I like it a lot, thanks,” I told him. “Heart operations are similar wherever you are, but Brant has some wonderful equipment. And I’m very much looking forward to my first surgery with Professor Axton next week.”
Angela came back to the table with a mug of tea for Jasper. “Oh, so is Peter! He’s quite excited to have you in the team.”
Jasper turned to me. “Are you a very high-up surgeon, then, Ms Keyte?” he asked, his eyes wide.
“Absolutely not at all,” I said with a grin. “Mrs Axton is exaggerating.”
“No, I’m not,” Angela said. “Rachel has quite a reputation, Jasper.”
I smiled slightly. “Don’t ask for what.” Inwardly I wasn’t smiling. An image had flashed across my mental vision unbidden: Craig Rawlins’ white lifeless body.
“Are you all right, Rachel?” Angela said. “You’ve gone a bit pale. I hope you’re not overworking.”
I forced out a laugh. “You’re beginning to sound like your old friend Bridget Harries!” I said. “I’m quite all right, thank you.” I turned to the boy opposite. “So are you at school here in Brant, Jasper?” Polite conversation! Did I care? No. But it was a way of deflecting interest away from me and my well-being.
The Healing Knife Page 8
