Smiling to himself, he palmed the door out of the way and went into the changing room, greeting the other members of the team with the sort of enthusiasm that was likely get him lynched on a Monday morning.
Life was suddenly good.
*
Annie had hoped to see him again before the end of the day, but he must have checked on his post-ops while she’d been on her afternoon break.
Whatever. They’d had several new admissions, including a girl of sixteen with a broken femur following a fall from a horse, and she’d spent the last half-hour with her, getting her more comfortable and helping her to get to grips with the PC A pump so she could control her own pain relief. But now it was time to fetch Katie and go home.
If she could get that far.
Sheer bloody-mindedness had got her through the day, but now she went to her locker, eased off her shoes and couldn’t help a little cry of pain. Needless to say it was heard by one of her staff nurses.
‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ she told Sue firmly. ‘I went on the walk yesterday and got blisters.’
‘Poor you. Still, at least you don’t live far away.’
‘No.’
Far enough, though, she thought, and wondered just how she was going to do it.
In bare feet?
No. She couldn’t walk through the hospital in bare feet.
But she could outside.
She pulled on her coat, bit her lip and put her shoes on again without giving in to a shriek of pain, then headed for the lift. Easier than the stairs, and she’d go out of the side door by the lift and past the nursing school to the footpath at the rear of the hospital, and home, with her shoes in her hand.
Except it had started to rain and the path was muddy and unappealing. She would have trodden down the backs of her shoes to make it easier, but they were fairly new, and she couldn’t bring herself to do it. So she freed her heels and tiptoed, not caring if she looked utterly ridiculous, and by the time she got home it was beyond her to go any further to collect Katie.
She let herself in, reached for the phone and was just about to ask Lynn if she could hang onto Katie a little longer when the doorbell rang.
‘Oh—hang on, Lynn,’ she said, and opened the door.
Patrick. It was Patrick, standing there filling her doorway, with a frown on his face and rain dripping from his hair. ‘Um, come in, I’ll be with you in a moment,’ she said automatically, and went back to the phone.
She expected him to stand there on the mat, but he didn’t, he headed down the hall past the sitting-room door and into the kitchen!
‘Lynn, if you could just hang onto her for another half-hour, it would be wonderful. Thanks. I owe you!’
And she dropped the phone and followed him as fast as she could hobble. No way did she want him in there!
Good grief. He hadn’t seen her kitchen yesterday, but now he had, he was only too glad he’d got a take-away for them last night, because she simply didn’t have a kitchen. At all.
The ‘sink’ was a washing-up bowl on a table, and there was a funnel that she must have been using to empty it stuck into the top of a vertical drainpipe on the wall. A pipe from the washing machine was also pushed into it, and apart from another table, a fridge and a cooker standing forlornly on one wall and a tatty old cupboard where she presumably kept her food and crockery, the room was empty.
‘What are you doing in here?’
He turned slowly, teatowel in hand. ‘Mopping up,’ he said, showing her the towel he’d been blotting his face with. ‘It’s just started to chuck it down.’
‘I know. It started just as I got home.’
‘I know. I saw you.’
‘So what are you doing here?’ she asked again, and he could see a mixture of anger—and panic?—on her face.
‘I saw you out of the window of my office. You can hardly walk.’
‘So?’
‘So I followed you. You need dressings on your blisters.’
‘I know. I’m going to do it in a minute.’
‘Let me look.’
‘No. I’m fine.’
‘No, you’re not fine. You’re blatantly not fine, and if you don’t treat them right you’ll get an infection in the bone or m your Achilles tendon sheath, and you’ll have real problems.’
‘I have real problems,’ she snapped, ‘and, trust me, blisters simply don’t qualify.’
‘Then why make such a song and a dance about it?’ he said reasonably.
‘You’re in my house!' she protested. ‘You followed me home, you walked in—’
‘You asked me in!’ he reminded her.
‘Not to here.’
He looked round. ‘Hmm. Bit of a disaster area. I didn’t realise you were in the middle of a refit.’
A mixture of emotions chased across her face, and then suddenly, without warning, he saw her eyes fill with tears and she turned away.
‘Well, now you know, so you can come out of there and leave me in peace to tend my blisters and fetch my daughter from the childminder.’
‘Is she far away?’
‘Five minutes.’
‘I’ll get my car. You can’t walk any further. In the meantime, I want you sitting with your feet in a bowl of warm saline, soaking off those plasters and drinking a cup of tea.’
‘How am I supposed to make a cup of tea with my feet in a bowl of water?’ she retorted with a return of her old spirit, and he turned her towards the sitting room and gave her a little shove.
‘You aren’t. I’m making you tea. Go and sit and roll up your trousers.’
‘I don’t have time—’
‘Yes, you do. You’ve got half an hour. I heard you say so. Now, go and sit down and do as you’re told.’
‘You’re insufferable,’ she snapped, but he walked off, not giving her the chance to argue, found her kettle on the table beside the washing machine, filled it from the wobbly cold tap that was hanging off the wall and switched it on for her tea, then ran the similarly wobbly hot-water tap for the foot-bath.
Tepid, and the bowl was filling up.
Damn. Well, it would have to do. He’d heat it up from the kettle in a moment. Now, salt.
He found it in the lonely cupboard, together with a few tins of beans, a packet of cheap pasta and not much else, and sprinkled some into the tepid water in her washing-up bowl. She’d probably argue about that, too, he thought, but tough.
The kettle boiled, he poured half of it into the bowl on top of the tepid water, checked the temperature, put the rest on a teabag in a mug and left it brewing while he carried the bowl through to the sitting room.
She was sitting in the chair, staring out of the window opposite with a stubborn look on her face that he was beginning to recognise, and he put the bowl of water down at her feet, knelt down and sighed softly.
‘Annie, don’t be mad at me.’
‘I don’t want you fussing over me. I’m fine. I can cope—’
‘Of course you can cope. I never said you couldn’t. Come on.’
And he picked up her right foot and tried to ease the sock away.
She gasped, and he stifled his reaction and lifted both feet, pulled the bowl closer to her and lowered her feet carefully into the water, socks and all.
She made a tiny sound as the warm water hit her blisters, but to give her credit she carried on and put her feet in, bit by bit, and he couldn’t hold back any longer.
‘You’re an idiot,’ he growled at her feet. ‘Fancy letting yourself get into this state. Why on earth did you go for that long walk in those old shoes anyway? You must be crazy! Arid why tackle something as major as the kitchen when you obviously can’t even afford shoes and there’s no food in the house? You must be nuts—’
He didn’t even see it coming. One moment she was sitting there with her feet in the water, the next the bowl hit him in mid-chest and she’d leapt to her feet and run out of the room.
‘Get out!’ she screamed, and
he stood up, water streaming off him in all directions, and followed her into the hall, kicking himself all the way. She’d opened the front door and was standing there holding it, shaking from head to foot, her eyes wide with hurt and humiliation and anger. Taking the front door from her trembling hand, he closed it softly and pulled her, resisting, into his arms.
‘Oh, Annie, I’m sorry,’ he groaned.
‘Let go of me! Get out! I don’t want you here! How dare you tell me how to run my life when you know nothing about it? Nothing, do you hear me? You have no bloody idea what I’m going through, and you have the—the nerve to tell me what to do.’
Her fists were pounding his chest, flailing at him, and as he ducked his head out of the way, he saw her face crumple and felt the fight go out of her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again, drawing her more firmly into his arms and cradling her against his sodden chest. Her shoulders slumped under his hands as she gave in to a great wave of sobs that tore at his heart.
It didn’t last long. With an inner strength he could only be in awe of, she hauled herself together and straightened up, swiping tears from her cheeks with the palms of her hands and stepping back, giving herself space.
‘Please, go,’ she begged quietly, but he shook his head.
‘Not until I’m sure you’re OK.’
‘I’m OK,’ she said, but her chin wobbled and he could see it was a lie. Whatever was going on?
‘I don’t think so. At least let me clear up the mess.’
And then she looked at him, and shock dawned in her eyes, as if she’d only just realised what she’d done. ‘Oh, lord, look at you,’ she said unsteadily. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.’
‘My crass insensitivity?’ he murmured, wondering if she’d tell him now what it was all about, or if she was about to yank the door open again and pitch him through it. It was only what he deserved after all, but she had gone in the other direction, staring aghast at the devastation in her little sitting room.
‘Oh, well, the carpet needed a wash,’ she said with a little hiccup in her voice that made him want to kiss her better, whatever was wrong with her.
‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll be back and sort it out—if you’ll promise to let me in. I probably don’t deserve it.’
‘Oh, you do. I’m going to let you clear it up,’ she said with a courageous little smile that tugged at his heart. ‘I reckon you owe me that, at least.’
He smiled back, resisted the urge to kiss her and opened the front door. ‘There’s a cup of tea in the kitchen. Go and drink it. I’ll be back in ten minutes,’ he said, and shut the door behind him.
What on earth had she done?
He was only being kind, and from his perspective it must have seemed quite reasonable. After all, nobody in their right mind would refit the kitchen when they couldn’t afford shoes or food.
Except, of course, Colin hadn’t been in his right mind, and she’d known nothing about it.
And now that she’d thrown a bowl of water over him, Patrick would be entitled to an explanation.
With a heavy sigh, she picked up the washing-up bowl and took it back to the kitchen, pulled the towels from the rail in the bathroom and cloakroom and spread them on the floor then walked on them over and over, switching them until the floor was drier and the towels were sopping wet.
She padded wetly into the kitchen, put the towels in the ancient and decrepit washing machine, carefully eased off her socks and chucked them in after the towels then shut the door. It was only half a load, but the towels had looked pretty murky after she’d mopped up the water and she wondered just how filthy the carpet really was.
She’d been meaning to shampoo it for ages but she couldn’t afford to hire a machine and anyway, she hadn’t had time— and she certainly hadn’t had time to get down on her hands and knees and scrub it. In the great scheme of things, shampooing that shocking old carpet wasn’t frightfully high on the list.
Katie, however, was, and she rang Lynn, told her she’d had a crisis with a bowl of water on the carpet and asked for another half-hour.
‘Sure. Make it an hour and I’ll feed her with mine—and before you panic, I won’t charge you. Everybody has disasters from time to time. You just get sorted and I’ll see you later.’
Bless her heart. Annie thanked her, cradled the phone and changed out of her soggy uniform—soggy because Patrick had hugged her when she’d been trying to throw him out— and wondered what to do next.
Nothing, because he was back, knocking on the door and calling her name. She opened it warily. She still felt guilty, but that didn’t mean she was ready to let him speak to her like that without knowing anything about her.
‘Can I come in?’
She nodded, stepping back and realising as she did so that there was another pool near the door where he’d been standing while she’d blubbed all over him. He was dry now, though, dressed like her in jeans and a casual jumper and armed with a machine that looked promising. She eyed it hopefully. ‘That was quick.’
‘I told you I was only round the corner. I’ve brought my carpet cleaner—it’s one of those wet or dry jobs. I thought I could suck most of the water out with it and hopefully save the carpet.’ She laughed humourlessly. ‘I think you’re about ten years too late for that. It’s covered in paint around the edges and I hate the wretched thing anyway. It was next on the list.’ After the mortgage and the kitchen. ‘But saving it would be good for now, thank you.’
‘Let’s see what we can do. CPR on a carpet might be beyond me but I’ll give it my best shot.’
And before she could move, he had the furniture cleared to one side of the room, he’d sucked the water out of the carpet—well, mud, really—and he was heading for the kitchen to fetch warm water for the shampoo.
‘I’ve put the boiler on,’ she said, and watched as he filled the tank, poured in shampoo and headed back to the machine.
‘If you’re at a loose end, tea would be good, since we didn’t get to drink the last one,’ he said with a cheeky grin, and she put the kettle on, suppressing a smile as she did so. At a loose end? That would make a change.
But for a moment, until the kettle boiled, she was, and she spent the time gingerly peeling off the soggy plasters on her heels and whimpering softly as the skin came away. Damn. They needed proper cleaning and then dressing with fresh blister plasters, nice and padded to cushion the damaged layers.
And she didn’t have any, of course, and the dressings she’d got were only simple plasters or gauze dressings and tape. They needed some non-adherent wound dressings, but she didn’t like taking things from work and she couldn’t afford to buy them.
‘Ouch.’
‘You again! I thought you were cleaning the carpet?’
He scowled at her feet. ‘I am. Just the last third to do. Give me another few minutes and I’ll sort you out.’
‘I can do it—’
‘Just humour me here. I feel guilty enough, dammit.’
And he tipped the filthy water from the waste tank down the funnel into the drain, refilled the clean tank with hot water and walked off, shooting her feet another of those looks on the way past.
She shrugged, studied her heels again and decided to let him play the hero.
Except, of course, he’d realise she didn’t have the right sort of dressings and he’d give her another telling-off for that. Maybe if she smothered them in antiseptic it would work as well? Or petroleum jelly? She probably had some of that kicking about in a drawer upstairs. If she could just get the dressings on before he finished, maybe she could get away with it.
She could hear him in the sitting room, still busy with the carpet cleaner. If she sneaked past...
‘Good grief.’
She stopped by the door, stunned, and he turned off the machine and studied his handiwork for a second. ‘It’s looking a bit better—I don’t think it’s ruined.’
She looked from him to the carpet and started
to laugh. ‘I think it was ruined years ago, but that’s beside the point. It looks amazing. Hideous, but amazing. I had no idea it was that colour. I haven’t got a machine like that—the only way I can do it is on my hands and knees, and it just doesn’t work in the same way. Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me. It’s my fault I’m doing it.’
‘I threw the bowl.’
‘Under extreme provocation. I would have done the same. In fact, I wouldn’t still be talking to me.’
‘Good,’ she said with a cheeky grin. ‘Talking to yourself is never a great idea.’
‘What about you talking to me?’
She tipped her head on one side, her grin evaporating. ‘About?’ she asked warily.
‘Whatever’s going on in your life? I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but since we seem to have got halfway through a conversation, I wondered if we could find time at some point to finish it.’
She was right to be wary. She felt herself pulling away, and shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t want to talk about it.’
Which was as good as an admission that there was something, but she wasn’t going into details and he seemed to accept it graciously enough.
‘OK. Well, maybe I could help out this evening—cook you and Katie a meal? Until you get your kitchen done it isn’t going to be easy, and your feet might appreciate a rest, too.’
Oh, it was so tempting. So gloriously, utterly tempting— even though she was completely used to the kitchen by now, after struggling with it for two and a half long years.
‘Katie’s been fed by the childminder,’ she told him.
‘But you haven’t and I’m sure she can coax down some pudding. Besides,’ he added reasonably, ‘you haven’t got anywhere to sit until the carpet’s dry, so unless you fancy a really early night, I think the least you can do is let me make it up to you by feeding you and giving you somewhere warm and dry to eat it. And by tomorrow evening the carpet should be dry.’
She dithered. Foolish move, because he then looked down at her feet, frowned and added, ‘And I’ve some proper plasters at home in my first-aid kit, left from when I was breaking in a pair of boots that never did fit.’ She wavered and he went on, ‘I’ll even throw in a free foot massage,’ and that did it. Of all the things he could have offered her, the foot massage won hands down.
A Wife and Child to Cherish (Audley Memorial Hospital) Page 3
