A Wife and Child to Cherish (Audley Memorial Hospital)

by Caroline Anderson

  Annie pointed her out to him, found Sarah’s notes and joined him at Mrs Dickinson’s bedside. Patrick was so good with patients—he put things in simple terms without talking down to them, told them everything they needed to know but didn’t terrify them or leave them in the dark, and he just had a way of making them feel special, as if he was really focussing on them, as if they mattered. He was explaining what he would do, going over it again for Suzanne, and Annie watched him, mesmerised by the sound of his voice and the strong, purposeful movements of his hands as he showed her exactly where the incisions would be and how he’d go about it.

  ‘OK? Anything else you need to know?’

  Suzanne shook her head. ‘No. Thank you. That’s great.’

  ‘OK, I’ll see you in Theatre. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.’

  Then he straightened up, wincing as he did so, and Annie had to bite her lip to stop the smile.

  ‘Don’t laugh. I’m going to die,’ he groaned softly as they crossed the ward.

  ‘Nonsense. You nearly died yesterday in that mad free-for-all, but I think you’re safe today.’

  ‘No sympathy,’ he grumbled, and she laughed.

  ‘Absolutely not. You were having a ball.’

  ‘So I was,’ he said, throwing her a grin that nearly melted her legs. If he carried on like this she’d need a knee replacement or two herself, because right now they didn’t seem to be very good at holding her up!

  ‘Right. Sarah’s discharge, and then I’m off to Theatre to struggle with the pain.’

  ‘Ah, poor baby,’ she crooned, and he scowled at her, snatched the notes from her hand and headed for Sarah’s bed, muttering about witches under his breath. But she could see him smiling and she couldn’t have kept the silly smile off her own face to save her life.

  ‘You’re running again! I thought you were sore?’

  ‘I am,’ Patrick said, slowing to a halt beside them, his breath rasping. ‘Hi, Katie. Good day at school?’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘We had show and tell. I told them about the rugby match and the tea—that was the best bit.’

  ‘Not me winning the match?’ he teased.

  ‘You were very good,’ she conceded seriously, and he chuckled.

  ‘Damned by faint praise,’ he murmured, but he was smiling indulgently at Annie’s daughter and she was smiling back.

  They were right outside their gate again, and it seemed churlish not to offer him a drink, so Annie said, ‘Talking of tea, do you want to come in?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I need to get showered and changed. But later?’

  ‘We could have supper!’ Katie piped up. ‘You couldn’t come on Friday ’cos we were going away, but we’re here now.’

  ‘So you are,’ he said, meeting Annie’s eyes questioningly.

  She shrugged, wondering what she’d got in the cupboard or in the shopping that she’d just picked up that could make enough to feed a big, hungry man. Nothing, was the simple answer, and she was too exhausted to go back to the shops. ‘I haven’t really got anything—’

  ‘How about I pick up something on the way over?’ he offered. ‘Something healthy?’

  No. This was silly. He mustn’t. ‘Healthy sounds good,’ she found herself saying instead, and with a grin he headed off down the pavement again, picking up pace.

  ‘See you in about an hour,’ he called over his shoulder, and they watched him turn the corner and wave just before he disappeared.

  ‘I wonder what he’ll bring?’ Katie said, staring after him hopefully. ‘Do you think it’ll be chocolate pudding again?’

  She laughed. ‘That’s not healthy!’

  ‘No, but it’s nice. He’s nice, too. I like him. Do you like him?’

  And because she’d vowed never to lie to her daughter, she had no choice. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said honestly. ‘I think he’s very nice.’

  Very, very nice indeed.

  ‘Hot roast chicken!’

  Patrick smiled at Katie’s enthusiasm, and felt something inside him twist a little as she rummaged through the bag of goodies he’d picked up at the supermarket.

  ‘And chocolate pudding! I love you!’ she said, and threw herself at him.

  Laughing, he scooped her up into his arms and hugged her. Her little arms snaked around his neck and he felt the hot, damp squash of her mouth against his cheek as she kissed him spontaneously. Sweet, affectionate little girl. So trusting. How could her father have done this to her? How could anyone hurt her?

  A lump in his throat, he kissed her back, set her down and pulled the rest of the shopping out. Salad, a French stick, butter, cherry tomatoes, a bowl of potato salad and a bottle of balsamic vinegar dressing.

  ‘We need the table, really,’ Annie said, watching him as he unpacked it all. Opening the dining-room door, she gave the table a quick swipe, set it for three and got glasses out while he cut up the bread and washed the tomatoes in the little bowl. ‘Water?’ she asked him, but he pulled a bottle of wine out of the other bag and raised a brow.

  She hesitated, then bit her lip and nodded.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she said, and filled a glass with water for Katie.

  ‘Do you want to carve it or shall we just rip chunks off?’ he asked.

  ‘Rip chunks! ’ Katie said, looking fascinated at the concept, and so that was what they did, camping out on the table squashed up against the wall in the dining room and eating with their fingers, hemmed in by the constant reminder of Annie’s unfinished kitchen.

  One day soon, he told himself. One day soon.

  ‘That was lovely. Thank you so much.’

  He smiled at her. ‘My pleasure.’

  Oh, those eyes. She couldn’t resist them, couldn’t manage to look at them without drowning. She pushed back her chair and gathered up the wreckage of their meal, sent Katie off to shower before bed and headed out of the room.

  He followed her, bringing the rest of the things, and topped up her glass. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had a glass of wine. No, that wasn’t true. She’d had one with Sally and David a few weeks ago. She couldn’t remember when she’d last bought a bottle. Before Colin had died. Years ago.

  ‘Come on, we’ll leave this lot. I’ll do it tomorrow,’ she said, and they went through into her sitting room. She shut the curtains and curled up in the chair in front of the window, cradling the wineglass and wondering how she was going to cope when he got bored with her and made some other friends.

  ‘Do you want to watch the news?’ she asked, and he nodded.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind. I haven’t seen it today.’

  So she turned on the television, and sipped her wine, and tried to concentrate on something—anything!—other than how good it felt to have him sprawled on her sofa, his long legs stretched out across her sitting room, one knee slightly bent and his chin propped on his hand while he watched the news.

  And somehow, with the heating turned up a little in his honour and the quiet voice of the newscaster and the soothing sound of his breathing, she felt her eyelids begin to droop...

  ‘Is she asleep?’

  Katie was in her pyjamas, her wet hair scraped back into a soggy rope that was dripping on her pyjama top. He nodded, his eyes going back to Annie curled in her chair. ‘She looks tired.’

  ‘She is tired. She’s always tired, but I’ve got to do homework and I need her. It’s cutting and sticking.’

  ‘Great!’ he said softly, and levered himself carefully to his feet, trying not to groan out loud. He followed her into the dining room. ‘Cutting and sticking’s what I do best,’ he told her, desperately hoping it would be as easy as it sounded. ‘I usually do it with bones, though, so I might not be that fantastic at it, but we can have a go. What do you have to do?’

  ‘Make a cube,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the card all marked out, I just have to cut it and fold it and stick it together so it looks square.’

  ‘Sounds like just my kind of thing,’ he said con
fidently, relieved that it was something he could help with and not the history of Rome or something else equally useless that he vaguely remembered from his primary-school days.

  He gave the table a rub with his sleeve to make sure it was spotless after their rather messy meal, and then she found scissors and glue in the bureau and they settled down to make her cube.

  While they worked, he buried his conscience a mile deep and pumped her for all he was worth.

  ‘So tell me about your weekend. Did you and your mum do anything nice?’

  ‘Not really. We went to Granny and Grandpa’s, and they took me out on Saturday morning to the farm shop so I could see the animals while Mummy slept—they’ve got a pets’ corner there, it’s really cool, you can cuddle the guinea pigs— then in the afternoon we went to town and bought me new shoes for school, because my old ones don’t fit any more. Grandpa says I’m growing like a weed. He says I’m going to be a giraffe like Mummy. And then Mummy went to work again and in the morning after she’d had a sleep we got the bus back. Can you cut that bit for me? It’s hard in the corners.’

  ‘Sure.’ Work? And she’d slept on Saturday morning? He trimmed the corners and handed the sheet back.

  ‘Was she working nights, then?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, and she nodded.

  ‘Agency work,’ she said innocently, her head bent over the card as she folded it meticulously along the lines. ‘She does it most weekends, and if she has a holiday she does it. And soon, she says, she’ll have enough money to pay a man to put the kitchen in and then we can sell the house and go and live somewhere we can afford, with a smaller mortgage.’

  He realised her words must be a direct quote. He knew he was getting into dangerous territory, but he wanted to find out how this would impact on a little girl who’d already lost so much, so after a moment he said casually, ‘So do you want to move? Would it be good?’

  Her skinny little shoulders lifted briefly. ‘Dunno. It would be nice to have time with Mummy when she’s not tired, and we could go on holiday, I s’pose, but I like it here. It’s nice in the garden in the summer. There’s a big apple tree with a swing on it, and my bedroom’s really pretty. Come and see.’ And she jumped up, grabbed him by the hand and led him upstairs to her bedroom, through the hall and landing with their tired wallpaper, past the open door of a room that was well past its sell-by date, and into a lovely girly little room, a confection of pink and purple, with sparkly gauze curtains and pretty bedding.

  She plonked herself on the bed and patted the quilt beside her. ‘Sit down. I want to show you Florence,’ she said, and lifted a doll off her pillow. ‘Florence, say hello to Patrick. There, she said it. Say hello back.’

  ‘Hello, Florence,’ he said dutifully, wondering why something so simple should bring a lump to his throat. Her towel had been dropped on the floor, and he picked it up and gathered her hair up in it and squashed it, squeezing out some of the water. ‘Have you got a hairdryer?’ he asked her, but she shook her head.

  ‘It broke. I’ll put on a dry pyjama top when my hair’s dried. Mummy usually brushes it dry. Do you think my cube will take ages to dry when we’ve stuck it?’

  ‘Maybe. Why?’

  ‘I have to get ready for school tonight, because we go to Lynn’s early tomorrow. Mummy’s on an early so we have to leave before seven.’

  The hazards of being a single parent, he realised, and wondered how on earth they coped.

  Amazingly.

  ‘I think you might have to leave it till the morning before you put in it your bag, but if it’s all ready to take it won’t be a problem, will it?’

  Katie shook her head, and her wet hair flicked against his arm. He touched it experimentally. ‘I tell you what, why don’t I brush your hair for a while to help it dry, and then we’ll go down and finish your sticking so you don’t get too cold?’ he suggested, and she got up and fetched her brush, plonking herself down in front of him on the floor and pulling out the band, then settling Florence back in her lap.

  ‘So do you like my room?’ she asked, as he spread the towel over her shoulders and started to ease out the knots, and he nodded.

  ‘Yes. It’s lovely. Very pretty.’

  ‘Mummy did it for me when Daddy died.’

  In those simple words were a wealth of meaning. He had to resist the urge to hug her. Instead, he cleared his throat and carried on brushing, the steady rhythm soothing the ache inside him. It was taking ages, so he lifted the corner of the towel and rubbed her hair a bit more, brushing it out again and spreading it over her shoulders. Such pretty hair. Such a dear little girl.

  If things had been different, if Ellie hadn’t had the stroke, he thought, but then cut himself off abruptly. No. Don’t go there. It’s pointless. You’ll never know. You’re just torturing yourself.

  He ran the brush through it one last time and sat back. ‘That’s better. Is it dry enough?’

  She felt it and nodded, scrambling to her feet and looking in the mirror, her reflection smiling at him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure. I tell you what, why don’t you change your pyjama top and I’ll go downstairs and have a look at this cube?’

  She put Florence down and he left her to change while he went back to the dining room and studied the not-quite-regular little construction with fingers that didn’t seem absolutely steady.

  Damn. She was getting to him—burrowing into his heart, tearing it to shreds. He was getting too close. He put the cube down and went and looked at Annie, but she was still asleep, her wineglass hanging empty in her fingertips. He eased it from them and put it down, standing over her for a moment just watching her breathe, then went back out as he heard Katie running down the stairs.

  ‘Ready for sticking?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Right, let’s stick.’

  It took them only a few minutes, but it was quite fiddly and he watched, fascinated, as the tip of her tongue crept out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. Just like Annie. He’d seen her like that hunched over the paperwork in her office. ‘There. Do you think it’s all right?’

  ‘It looks OK,’ he told her. ‘What do you think?’

  She poked at one of the tabs, straightening it up a little, and nodded. ‘I think it’s all right.’

  ‘Good. Then why don’t we put it carefully in a bag ready to take, and then you go and kiss your mother goodnight and go up to bed as soon as you’re ready?’

  ‘She usually reads to me. Will you read to me?’

  ‘Of course.’ It was no hardship. He’d read aloud to Ellie night after night for years.

  So Katie tiptoed into the sitting room, kissed her mother’s pale cheek, whispered goodnight and crept out again, a finger pressed to her lips and eyes alight. ‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘You can read me the next chapter. It’s very exciting.’

  And she ran lightly upstairs, leaving him to follow.

  * * *

  Annie woke to a stiff neck and the quiet murmur of the television. Her wineglass had gone, sitting safely on the coffee-table, and Patrick had disappeared. She turned off the television and listened, and heard his voice.

  Coming from upstairs?

  She unfolded her legs, wincing as she did so, and limped into the hall. Yes. Definitely coming from upstairs.

  She crept up, listening to the low murmur of his voice. He was reading to Katie, she realised, and for a moment she simply stood there and listened, transfixed. Colin hadn’t read to Katie. He’d always worked too late, come home after she was asleep, and for the past two and a half years it had only been her.

  And half the time she was too busy or too late or just not there.

  She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut hard against the guilt. OK, she was always working, but she was doing it for Katie. And soon it would be done. Surely?

  She shook off the guilt and crept to her daughter’s bedroom door, peeping round it silently so as not to disturb them.

  To her surpris
e Patrick was sitting on the floor beside Katie’s bed, his back propped against the wall with the book resting on his up-bent knees and Katie’s head inches from his on the edge of her pillow, her eyes shut and her breathing deep and even as he read on.

  She was asleep. Why didn’t he stop? Didn’t he realise? She was about to tell him when he turned the page, and as he did so he lifted his arm and wiped his cheek against his shoulder, and Annie’s heart contracted.

  He carried on reading, and she tiptoed away and sat on the top step, listening to the low rumble of his voice and wondering why the mild little adventure story would have reduced him to tears. He didn’t have children—maybe that was it.

  Perhaps he and Ellie had planned a family, and he was mourning for what he’d never had?

  He must have reached the end of the chapter, because she heard the book close very softly and the floor creak.

  There was a muffled groan as he got to his feet, and she heard bedclothes being rearranged. Tucking Katie in. And then the soft murmur of his voice saying goodnight.

  She should have got up; moved away, given him privacy, but she didn’t, she sat there, and when he came out he saw her and hesitated.

  ‘Annie—I didn’t know you were here.’

  She looked up and saw him hurriedly scrub his hands over his face. When he took them away, she could see the slight glitter of moisture on his cheeks, but she ignored it and got to her feet.

  ‘I was just coming to say goodnight to Katie and I heard you reading.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. She’s asleep now.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, I’m sure she loved it. Thanks for reading to her. Do you want tea?’

  ‘That would be good. Um—I need the loo,’ he said.

  ‘Help yourself. I’ll see you in a minute.’

  And she came downstairs, leaving him alone to get himself together.

  He was down in a moment and came into the kitchen, standing with his hands jammed in his back pockets, staring down at the floor.

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind me reading to her, but you were asleep.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t mind. What about you, though?’ she added, although she’d meant to leave it alone. Before she could stop herself she’d crossed to him and lifted her hand and ran her fingers lightly over his cheek, tracing the path of the tears. ‘Are you all right?’