CHAPTER THREE
‘You’ve decorated,’ Merry said. ‘Lyn, it’s lovely.’ She indicated the carrycot she was swinging easily in one hand. ‘Young master here is still asleep, so let’s park him somewhere and you can show me round properly.’
‘We’ll put him on the bed,’ Lyn said.
It was Thursday evening, straight after work. Merry had a very tight schedule, but she could get away for a while after picking up her baby, and she wanted to see Lyn in her flat again.
They walked through the hall, with its muted grey walls and white stencils, into the bedroom. Merry carefully placed the carrycot on the bed. At times it still looked odd to Lyn, the single bed in the alcove that had once held a double, but now she was used to it.
She walked to the window to draw the curtains, and Merry joined her, to look out. This was the reason Lyn had first picked the flat. It was the first floor of a house, skilfully converted into two. The bedroom, and the living room next door, looked out over a tiny park, and then the ground dropped away so they could see the towers and spires of the City of London in the distance. Lyn never tired of the view. She had spent many hours just staring, wondering at the lives of the countless thousands below her. It had been comforting, in a strange way. It had made her own problems seem in proportion.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t move,’ Merry said directly.
Lyn waved at the view. ‘I didn’t want to leave this. Moving would have seemed like running, so I stayed. But everything had to be exactly as I wanted it, so I redecorated this summer. Mum and Dad wanted me to fly out to go on a trip with them, but I wanted to get my life in order.’
They moved into the living room, and Merry smiled at the essentially feminine decor. ‘This is lovely,’ she said. ‘How did you get the contrasting curtains and carpet? And those pictures of flowers, they fit in so well. As I remember, the place was a bit of a hodgepodge. All bits and pieces. Now it’s all of a piece.’
‘It all took some finding but it was worth it. I wanted a place that was completely mine, that reflected no one’s life but mine. And now I think I’ve got it. Come and look in the kitchen.’
They walked into the hall again. ‘There used to be another bedroom there,’ Merry said, ‘quite a big one. Have you decorated that too?’
‘Try the door,’ Lyn said.
Merry did so, then turned, surprised. ‘It’s locked,’ she said.
‘It’s full of the furniture and things from before. Stuff I can’t yet bear to give away.’
‘Full of memories,’ Merry said.
‘If you like. But they’ll go soon. I’ve started a new life.’
From the bedroom came a little wail. ‘Her master’s voice,’ Merry said. ‘D’you mind if I feed him, Lyn?’
‘Bring him into the living room and I’ll fetch us a biscuit and a cup of tea. Then we can have a talk.’
Merry had said she wouldn’t stay for a full meal, for her husband was a GP and they liked to have dinner together at about seven. So they just had tea, and talked as Merry breastfed the baby. Lyn peered at the urgently sucking infant. There was something inexpressibly touching about the fervour with which a baby suckled.
‘You should have a baby.’ Merry chuckled. ‘It’s nothing like what I expected. For years I lectured new mums on having babies, and when I had one I realised I hadn’t known what I was talking about.’
‘I want to in time,’ Lyn said, ‘but first I’ve got other plans. Now, come on, gossip. Tell me about the other members of the department. What’s Henry really like?’
‘Ah, Henry. He’s got a clear mind, he knows his stuff, he can be a bit detached but he’s really very human. I think he preferred life as it was in the fifties, when doctors were God and everyone else had to know it. Life was simpler for him then. But he’s adapted and now we all can call him Henry.’
‘That seems exact,’ Lyn agreed, ‘and I am learning from him. He’s a brilliant neurologist.’
‘Why did you opt for neurology?’ Merry asked. ‘As I remember you were thinking about orthopaedics for a while. Together with—’
‘I just wanted a change,’ Lyn interrupted. ‘And neurology really is fascinating. Now what about Melissa? She’s been helpful enough, but she seems a bit cool.’
‘Comes from an old family of doctors,’ Merry said, lifting Nathan and expertly rubbing his back. ‘Her father is Sir Sidney Yates, you know, the cardiologist, and she’s got a younger brother who’s some kind of doctor too. She certainly knows her stuff.’
Baby burped. ‘There’s a good boy,’ Merry crooned, then giggled. ‘I think Melissa is a bit upset after her weekend with Ross.’
‘I know they were walking in Wales. Did they go away together—you know, as in a weekend away?’ Lyn didn’t feel this was like Ross. Surely he wouldn’t have been so attentive to her, just a couple of days after a weekend with Melissa? Certainly she hoped not.
Melissa giggled again. ‘I don’t think so. I suspect Melissa wouldn’t have minded—she would have quite liked a weekend with Ross in some posh hotel. Last week I heard her on the phone to him, practically forcing him to take her away. Said that Henry was on call all weekend, and they didn’t spend enough time together out of the department. So Ross invited her. You know he’s a big outdoor type, like… you used to be. Well, she wanted to go with him, so he took her.’
‘Go on,’ Lyn said with a small smile. She already suspected the end of this story.
‘Ross took her to a North Wales Climbing Club hut, to meet a few of his pals. That was it, a hut. Melissa had to sleep in a dormitory with the other girls. She had to wash in cold water and use a chemical toilet. And Melissa had to pretend to enjoy it, and the joke is: Ross thought she did. He couldn’t imagine anyone not enjoying that kind of experience.’
‘I know the kind of man you mean,’ Lyn said. ‘So now tell me about Ross. He took me for a drink, you know—said he wanted to get to know new members of staff.’
Merry looked at her shrewdly. ‘He does that, he took me too. The first thing to know about Ross is that he does a lot of Henry’s work. They’re partners rather than consultant and SR. Apart from that I think I’ll leave you to make up your own mind about Ross. Like I said, he’s a big outdoors type rather like you used to be—though you’re not now.’
‘I’ve met these big outdoors types before,’ said Lyn. ‘They’re full of charm and they cause no end of trouble. Now tell me about working when you have a baby at home.’
It was a short but very pleasant visit. Lyn agreed to come round for tea soon, so she could have a chat with Joe, Merry’s husband. Then she frowned when Merry had left. It was too long since she’d had a visitor in her flat. She mustn’t turn into a hermit. She’d ring one or two of her other old friends. Quite soon.
Slightly dissatisfied with her life, Lyn finished her tea, picked up the evening paper, and idly scanned through the entertainments section. Something caught her attention. On Saturday night there was a concert she would really like to attend. It was by a singer who had had a period of fame in the sixties, had then followed the familiar route of drugs, failure, and a disastrous personal life. But now, in her mid-fifties, had come a new career. She had started to sing again. Her voice was hoarse, sad, knowing, hinting at the experiences of the past thirty years. Lyn rang the box office at once.
‘Sorry, we’re booked up,’ the clerk said. ‘But if you can give me a daytime telephone number and a credit card number, I’ll ring you if we get any returns.’
There was a chance. Lyn gave the ward number, and hoped she’d be lucky. In fact, she was. When she came back to the doctors’ room next morning there was a note for her. Her ticket for the concert would be waiting for her at the box office. Good. She was starting to get out at last.
‘A young girl, Fatima bin Hameed has just been sent up from A and E,’ Merry said. ‘Suspected skull fracture and complications. She speaks no English, but her uncle who does is with her.’
There was something about Merry’s tone tha
t made Lyn look up. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘what is it?’
‘He’s arrogant, thinks because he’s rich that he owns everybody. But the poor girl’s got to be clerked.’
‘It’s part of the job.’
Often dealing with parents was painful, and occasionally it was downright unpleasant. But for a paediatrician it was part of the job. Lyn took a junior nurse and walked to the little side ward where Fatima was lying. She was a small dark child, about five years old, with big luminous eyes. Lyn twitched. She thought one of the pupils was bigger than the other. The child was obviously terrified.
A man in western clothes had his back to Fatima, and was staring out of the window. Lyn said, ‘Mr bin Hameed? I am Dr Webster.’
The man turned slowly, and after a pause he took Lyn’s outstretched hand. ‘This is my niece Fatima,’ he said. ‘Earlier today I sent for the doctor, and he requested that we come here at once. I think it is nothing.’
‘Tell me what happened,’ Lyn said evenly.
The man shrugged. ‘Really, I do not know. Her nurse said that yesterday Fatima slipped while playing, and hit her head against the corner of the table.’
‘Was she knocked unconscious?’
‘Possibly. Certainly she has slept much since it happened.’
‘What kind of nurse was she with? A medical nurse?’
‘I do not know. Just someone sent by the agency.’
Mr bin Hameed was getting restless. ‘This is most inconvenient. I am not married, and my brother left this child with me. If I may leave her to your care now?’
‘No,’ said Lyn. ‘We may need your signature giving permission for an operation.’
‘Operation! For a headache?’
Already Lyn suspected what was wrong, but she had to be systematic. Fatima had drifted off to sleep, so gently she shook her awake. With the nurse’s help Lyn rolled back the bedclothes and checked that there were no other signs of trauma, no other injuries. Then the vital signs—pulse, breathing, blood pressure. She wanted to assess Fatima on the Glasgow coma scale, giving her scores on eye opening, verbal response, and motor response. Fatima didn’t do too well.
‘Ask her to lift her legs slightly,’ Lyn told the uncle. ‘And now her arms.’
After this there was little doubt. Fatima could only lift one side. She was suffering from hemiplegia—her left side was paralysed.
Lyn took a sample of blood and sent it down to be matched. Then she made arrangements for Fatima to have a CCT scan—a cranial computerised tomography scan.
The results would take about an hour. The she bleeped Melissa, who was on duty. ‘Five-year-old child,’ she said. ‘I suspect an acute subdural haematoma. I think her condition is worsening.’
‘You’ve sent her for a CCT?’
‘Of course,’ said Lyn, slightly nettled.
‘I’m on my way down. See if you can organise a theatre and an anaesthetist. Do the parents want to speak to me?’
‘It’s an uncle. And I don’t think he wants to speak to anyone.’
‘Like that, is it? Well, get his signature anyway.’
‘Melissa,’ Lyn asked, ‘can I come and watch?’
There was a pause then she answered, ‘Why not? If you’re sure you’re not needed on the ward.’
Melissa came down, checked Lyn’s findings and the two of them looked at the CCT results together. There had been a linear fracture of the skull—it hadn’t shown clearly on the initial X-ray. Both of them could clearly see where blood and fluid had drained into the space between the brain and the dura: the membrane that contained the brain. This was exerting pressure on the brain. ‘Better get that drained,’ said Melissa.
Lyn managed to get a signature from the uncle, but when she tried to explain what they were going to do and the possible, if unlikely, dangers, he just didn’t want to know. ‘I leave her in your hands,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you going to wait till the operation is finished?’ asked Lyn, amazed.
‘I will phone tomorrow morning. I am a busy man.’
Fatima was prepped, and her hair shaved, as Lyn and Melissa scrubbed up. Then they were in the theatre. ‘I don’t think we need a full craniotomy,’ Melissa said, critically studying the CCT. ‘A burr hole should do.’
Lyn watched as Melissa cut through to the skull, and her nerves twitched just a bit as the drill started to grind into the white bone. Blood gushed out, with Melissa looking on approvingly. Then the hole was sealed, and a probe to measure the pressure left protruding.
‘All we can do now is wait and hope,’ Melissa said, as they stripped off the theatre greens and threw them down the chute. ‘But I think we caught it before the pressure on the brain got too serious. I’ll be down to see her tomorrow.’
Lyn walked slowly back to the ward. Soon Fatima would wake and be alone in a foreign environment with no one to talk to, no friendly face to comfort her. That uncle was a pig! ‘Who’s the Arabic translator?’ she asked Merry.
Lizzie’s treated many foreign children, most of whom could speak no English. There was a register of translators: either people who worked in the hospital or others outside who could be called on.
‘There’s a staff nurse in orthopaedics,’ Merry said. ‘She might be on duty now.’ This was a situation in which other wards were usually willing to lend staff if they were able. Lyn arranged for the nurse to come onto the ward next morning for half an hour. When Fatima woke there would be at least one person who could talk to her.
Lyn was looking forward to Saturday night. There was no problem about going out on her own, for she was used to her own company and knew she’d enjoy herself. In fact she did phone a couple of old friends, but both of them were busy over the weekend, going out with long-standing partners. Lyn was a little shaken to see how life was passing her by.
Just because she was going on her own there was no reason for not making an occasion of the night. She loved dressing up, so she treated herself to a long, luxurious bath, had a suitably self-indulgent period at her dressing table, then put on a burgundy silk dress she had bought only a couple of weeks before, and not yet worn. She phoned for a taxi and threw an ivory-coloured wrap round her shoulders. Might as well do things in style.
She picked up her ticket, bought a glossy programme, and for a while enjoyed herself mingling with the other well-dressed people in the foyer. Then she went to take her place early. It was an expensive seat, so there would be plenty of leg room. She found her place, and discovered she was next to a large man in a dinner jacket, who had his back to her.
She sat down. The man turned and she looked at him in disbelief. ‘Good evening, Lyn,’ said Ross. He placed something in her lap. ‘Here, just to be conventional I’ve bought you a box of chocolates.’
She couldn’t keep the rage out of her voice. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to hear the concert. I’m very fond of this singer.’
‘I suppose it’s a coincidence that you’re sitting next to me?’
He was entirely unapologetic. ‘Not at all. I took the call on the ward when the box office rang. The booking clerk said there were two seats and you wanted one. I didn’t presume to order for you, but I took the other for myself.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You might have objected,’ he said urbanely. ‘This way I am certain of your company, at least for the first half of the programme.’
‘You’re stalking me!’
‘Not at all. I’m just discovering we have interests in common. I like this singer too, I have all her CDs. And after we have enjoyed the music together I will take you to supper and you can tell me why you are trying to keep me at a distance.’
‘Have supper with you! I’d rather—’
‘Shh! We’re starting.’
He was right: the lights were going down; the hum of voices decreased; in the pit the orchestra started to play quietly. The magic of the evening was beginning. A single spotlight flashed onto the stage, and into
it walked a slight figure, pale-faced, dark-haired. There was applause, much applause, and then the figure began to sing.
She was one of the few singers who took care that every word could be heard. This was important, for the words were as necessary as the music. Lyn gave herself to the mood created, of melancholy, of lost love, of the transience of memory. It was just the kind of music she needed. Occasionally she stole glances at Ross and he seemed just as rapt as she was.
By the interval she was in an entirely different mood, inclined to forgive him, and so she accepted his invitation to go for a drink. He told her he had ordered for them both in advance, hoping that she would approve of his choice.
She sipped the small glass he offered her. ‘Malt whisky?’
‘The Laphroaigh. The finest malt there is. I never knew a climber who didn’t like it.’
‘I told you, I’m not a climber.’ But she enjoyed the drink anyway, the smoky warmth relaxing her.
She was aware of other people looking at them, and guessed it was because Ross looked singularly well in his dinner jacket. There was a contrast between the formality of his well-cut black and white clothing and his general outdoor look. She even caught a couple of envious looks from other women, and felt a faint proprietary pride. She was glad she had put on her expensive burgundy dress.
‘I’m glad to be spending the evening with you,’ he said affably. ‘Aren’t you glad to be spending it with me?’
‘Perhaps not. Perhaps I just don’t fancy you,’ she said.
‘But you do. We both know that. I’ve never felt anything like this before, Lyn, and that is the truth. You told me you were not seeing anyone else, so why shouldn’t you be with me?’
She paused before answering, knowing that she was going to shock him. Well, he had pursued her. She had intended to keep her past life to herself, not to get involved with anyone. He had asked why he shouldn’t be with her, so she would tell him.
Calmly, she said, ‘One reason is perhaps because my fiancé, the man I was going to marry at the end of this month, has only been dead for eight months.’
He was shocked. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry I presumed. Please accept my apologies.’
Second Lover Page 4
