Taken For Granted

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘I was wrong.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Stop trying to make it better, Sam. I was wrong. You know it and I know it. Sue Palmer knows it. I expect the GMC will know it before long.’

  He swivelled towards her. ‘She’s not taking action against you?’

  Sally shook her head. ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’

  His shoulders dropped a fraction in relief. ‘God, for a moment there I thought…’

  He stood up and went into the kitchen, switching on the kettle. ‘Have a cup of tea before you go back.’

  ‘No.’ She followed him out. ‘I won’t. I want to get back to those antenatal notes and study them line by line before those women come in. If any of them has so much as a head cold, she’ll be admitted.’

  She tugged on her coat, picked up her bag and keys and was just going out of the door when Sam’s voice stopped her.

  ‘Sally?’

  She turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She swallowed hard. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘No—no, it’s not. It was unfair. You did what you thought was right on the evidence you had. It’s all very well having twenty-twenty hindsight, but it could have been wind.’

  Sally smiled wearily. ‘Thanks, Sam—not for the lies, but for bothering to tell them.’

  ‘They aren’t—’

  ‘Save it. And stay out of my garden. If you’ve got time on your hands, you could tackle the washing. I’m nearly out of knickers.’

  ‘I’d better do it then, hadn’t I? Can’t have my wife running around with that sassy little backside all naked.’

  She laughed. ‘Sam, it’s years since I had a sassy little backside.’

  His eyes glittered. ‘Don’t you believe it,’ he said softly.

  She bolted.

  True to her word, Sally checked and rechecked every set of notes before the first antenatal patient crossed her threshold that afternoon.

  Perhaps because of her vigilance, she thought she detected an abnormal heartbeat in one baby. She asked the midwife running the clinic with her to check, and she agreed. The heartbeat was irregular, sometimes gappy, and Sally was concerned.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Probably not,’ Sally hastened to assure her. ‘The baby’s heartbeat is a little irregular, that’s all. Usually it doesn’t mean anything, but I think to be on the safe side you ought to let them check you out at the hospital.’

  The baby was nearly term and, checking the co-op card, she discovered that the woman hadn’t been scanned yet.

  ‘They’ll probaby want you to have a scan, to have a look at the baby’s heart,’ Sally said. ‘I’ll send you with a letter. If you ask at reception they’ll ring and get an appointment through for you in the next day or so, but please don’t worry. It’s probably absolutely nothing, but I’d hate to neglect it.’

  While the woman was in transit from the consulting-room to the reception office, Sally rang through.

  ‘Mavis, get Mrs Clarke an appointment for a scan as quick as possible, please. There’s an abnormal heartbeat and I want it checked out fast, but don’t worry her.’

  ‘Right, I’ll do that in my room,’ Mavis promised, and Sally left her to it and went back to her other patients.

  Fortunately they were all doing well, with no nasty abnormalities or hiccups, and when the clinic was over Sally went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea.

  Mavis found her there. ‘She’s gone straight down. I told her they’d got a cancellation, but her consultant was running a clinic this afternoon and he said he wanted to see her at once, so he was fitting her in.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Oh, and Mr Palmer rang, to say his wife and the baby are fine and thank you for all your help yesterday and in the night. He was really grateful because you were so prompt.’

  Sally, who had her own very clear feelings on the matter, said nothing.

  Sam opened the door of the washing-machine and stared in horrified disbelief.

  Pink!

  Everything was pink—his shirts, Sally’s underwear, Molly’s school socks and blouse, the white checks in Ben’s school shirt—everything.

  Sally would go ape.

  Wondering bleakly how else he could foul up today, he pulled the soggy pink mess out into the plastic basket and studied it dismally, sifting through the contents in increasing despair.

  Six of his shirts—six, for heaven’s sake! And loads of knickers—his, Sally’s, Molly’s—oh, lord, and Ben’s. Ben would take really well to having pink knickers!

  Maybe it would wash out.

  He turned the dial to a hot wash, stuffed all the things back in, bar the offending red T-shirt, and switched the machine on again.

  An hour later, he had achieved nothing—well, nothing positive.

  His white polycotton work shirts were now permacreased as well as pink, and the elastic in all the knickers had collapsed.

  Defeated, he threw the whole mess into the tumble-driver and switched it on.

  Sally had said it wasn’t working properly, but he couldn’t see anything wrong with it. The clothes went round and round, and the air was coming out warm.

  He went into the kitchen and turned his attention to supper. This, he thought, couldn’t fail.

  A range of cold meats, salad and boiled new potatoes.

  All he had to do was not overcook the potatoes, and it would be fine.

  It was late—again—by the time Sally’s surgery finished. She went home armed with the knowledge that Jo Clarke’s baby had an irregular heart trace confirmed by the hospital, who had phoned to warn her that they were inducing her the following morning and she might very well be in touch.

  Sally could hardly wait. Interviews like that were always difficult, because there was nothing to add until the baby was born and could be examined after the changes in circulation that happened at birth had taken place. Until then it was all a case of speculation, and she really didn’t feel she could cope. She would talk to Sam and ask him to deal with it, as he was the Clarkes’ proper GP and she felt he ought to be the person to discuss such news with them.

  After all, there was no reason why he couldn’t, just because she was covering the majority of his work.

  A little bit of her was conscious of ducking out of a painful chore, but she justified it on the grounds of the well-being of the patient being better served if it was Sam who dealt with it.

  Anyway, she’d have to talk to him first.

  She turned into the drive and stared, amazed.

  A thin plume of smoke was filtering up behind the house. Was Sam having a bonfire?

  Now? At seven o’clock?

  Anything was possible.

  It didn’t smell like a bonfire, though.

  She opened the garage door and was immediately assailed by the acrid smell of smoke.

  The house!

  She flung open the door into the utility-room and was greeted by the sight of flames inside the tumble-driver.

  ‘Sam!’ she screamed, and he came running into the kitchen.

  ‘What is it, for God’s sake?’

  ‘The tumble-drier!’ she said, pointing, and, without hesitating, he yanked the plug out, pulled the hose off the back and picked the flaming machine up in his arms.

  ‘Open the door,’ he snapped, and she flung the door wide and watched in amazement as he carried the machine out into the garden and dumped it unceremoniously on the ground.

  Opening the door of the machine, he hurled a bucket of water into the flaming core and stood back to watch as the flames died instantly and stinking, acrid steam belched out into the cool night air.

  ‘Hell’s teeth, that was a close one,’ he said. ‘Good job you got back when you did.’

  Sally was speechless.

  ‘You knew it wasn’t working properly,’ she squeaked, finding her voice at last. ‘I told you it had started overheating—that was why I hadn’t be
en using it.’

  He shot her a fulminating glance. ‘I didn’t realise it was that sort of not working,’ he muttered tersely. ‘Ouch, my arms hurt.’

  Sally looked down at his bare forearms. Already they were reddening and looked sore.

  She took his watch off. ‘You need cold water on them straight away,’ she told him and, leading him back into the kitchen, she ran a deep bowl of cold water and instructed him to plunge both forearms in up to the elbow.

  ‘Not exactly comfortable,’ he said drily, leaning his elbows on the bottom of the sink and watching her as she took some sterile dressing out of the first-aid cupboard.

  ‘Tough. At least you’ll sleep. Here, sit on this.’

  There was an old stool she used for sitting at the sink preparing vegetables, and she pushed it up behind him so he could perch on it.

  ‘A sensible person, of course,’ she said mildly, watching as he wafted his sore arms through the water, ‘would have pulled the plug out and used the fire-extinguisher on the wall beside it.’

  ‘Now she tells me,’ he groaned.

  ‘I expect you just wanted to impress me with your heroics.’

  He snorted rudely. ‘Fat lot of good it did.’

  She chuckled. ‘What was in there?’ she asked out of interest.

  He went a fascinating shade of brick-red on the back of his neck.

  ‘Sam?’ she prodded.

  ‘All sorts of things—your undies, Molly’s socks, Ben’s school shirt, all my white shirts—whites, really.’

  Sally was confused. ‘Whites? But everything looked pink—’

  ‘It’s the light,’ he said, but too quickly.

  ‘It is?’

  She went out into the garden and came back in with the soggy, charred remains of a pink shirt.

  ‘Funny light—seems to be the same in here, too.’

  ‘So I had an accident.’

  She buried the smile. ‘I gather.’

  He sighed. ‘You might as well know the rest. I tried to get the colour out by boil-washing everything.’

  ‘Boil…But your shirts are all polycotton! And the knicker-elastic—’

  ‘All right, so it was a mistake!’

  She couldn’t hide the smile any longer. ‘So you decided to set fire to everything. I don’t know, the lengths some people will go to to destroy the evidence!’

  A soggy dish-cloth hit her squarely in the face.

  Peeling it off, she threw it back and then regarded him thoughtfully. ‘So, do I have any clean knickers for the morning?’

  ‘No—and Molly hasn’t got any other socks to wear, and my shirts are all wrecked.’

  She heaved a sigh. ‘OK. You’d better go to Marks and Spencer in the morning and replace everything.’

  ‘It’ll cost a fortune,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Mmm. Even more than fixing your car—and then there’s the cost of the tumble-drier to take into consideration. Is there any supper?’

  ‘Yes. Do you suppose we could claim on the insurance?’

  ‘Even though I’d told you it wasn’t cutting out and was overheating? I think not. I’ll go and change into my night things, then I’ll put in a load of washing so we’ve got something to wear tomorrow—and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of the utility-room!’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he muttered.

  ‘Tut, tut—don’t be ungracious!’

  He swore softly.

  ‘Sam!’

  She couldn’t resist swatting him on the bottom as she passed.

  Sam glared balefully at his sore, reddened arms.

  Such gratitude, he thought miserably. Trust Sally to think of the fire-extinguisher after he’d burned himself.

  He eased his arms out of the icy water and inspected them curiously. Only slight burns, except for that small area that was blistering on his right wrist. He’d put a clean dressing on that bit, but the rest would have to lump it. He couldn’t spend the entire night immersed in the sink listening to Sally teasing him.

  He carefully patted his arms dry and reflected on what a bloody awful day it had been. First the pansies, then the row about Sue Palmer’s baby—he could still kick himself for that—then the washing, and now his arms were sore and Sally had scored another round.

  Damn.

  As days went, it really had been the pits.

  Still, tomorrow would be different. He would go out first thing and replace all their clothes, and he’d get a new tumble-drier to replace the one he’d cremated, and while he was at it he’d buy a Teasmade so he didn’t have to get up at that ungodly hour to give Sally her morning fix of tea.

  Good idea.

  And perhaps tomorrow he’d manage an edible meal. Of course, he still had Sally’s comments on the bullethard new potatoes to deal with. He didn’t doubt they would be forthcoming.

  Still, at least she was teasing him now, not just turning away in grim-lipped silence. It dawned on him just how long it had been since she’d teased him.

  Years.

  Maybe it was progress of a sort.

  Funny progress, having to turn yourself into a figure of fun to get your wife to laugh again—and then at you instead of with you.

  Great.

  His arms hurt. Morosely, wallowing in self-pity and disgust, he took the salad out of the fridge and put in on the table. Oh, well, it looked pretty enough.

  After all, no-one was perfect…

  Jo Clarke’s baby was born the following afternoon, and the ECG showed no abnormality. Sally’s relief was enormous. The last thing she’d needed was another crisis.

  She had phoned the hospital just before her evening surgery and been given the news, and had rung Sam straight away.

  ‘I said you were over-reacting,’ he told her calmly.

  ‘Have you been shopping to replace my clothes?’ she asked waspishly.

  ‘Of course—and the supper’s in the oven. I’m just taking the kids to Cubs and Brownies, and I’ll be back later with them. Julia’s car’s broken down so I said I’d take her brood as well.’

  ‘How noble,’ Sally commented. ‘What’s for supper?’

  ‘Roast chicken.’

  Sally’s stomach rumbled. She had been too busy for lunch, and by the time she’d finished here she would be ready to chew the legs off the kitchen table. She said goodbye to Sam and threw herself into her evening surgery with renewed enthusiasm.

  Sam couldn’t believe it. The chicken should have been nicely browned, the roast potatoes crisp and golden, and instead there was the same pallid, cold, unappetising blob surrounded by raw grey potatoes.

  He glowered at the oven controls. He had set them to come on, for heaven’s sake! The timer looked as it ought to, so why…?

  The oven temperature. He hadn’t set the oven temperature, and the potatoes were now ruined.

  Disgusted with his inept stupidity, he nearly wrenched the switch off the front of the cooker.

  It started to hum most gratifyingly—about two hours too late.

  Damn.

  He threw the potatoes in the bin, peeled the last few and put them in.

  ‘We need a bath,’ the children told him.

  ‘No time.’

  ‘But we can do it ourselves,’ Ben assured him.

  He glanced distractedly at his son. ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Such scorn.

  ‘OK, but don’t make a mess.’

  They disappeared like greased lightning, leaving Sam struggling with the vegetables and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  That chicken wasn’t going to be ready till nearly nine o’clock.

  He closed his eyes in despair and nearly took the end off his thumb.

  Sally walked in on a scene of chaos. A trail of blood ran across the floor into the utility-room, and she followed it to find Sam struggling one-handed with the plasters.

  ‘What on earth have you done?’ she asked in concern.

  He stuck his thumb out to show her, and fresh blo
od welled out of the cut.

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Hmm. Can you stick something on it?’

  ‘Sure.’ She dried it carefully, then put a plaster on, tugging the edges together. It looked a nasty cut, deep and very sore. ‘You’d better keep that dry,’ she advised him.

  ‘Does that mean you’ll do the vegetables?’ he asked hopefully.

  She laughed, fighting her instincts. ‘No chance, mate—wear gloves. You’ll have to do a lot better than that to get yourself invalided out. When’s supper?’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Ah?’

  ‘The oven timer didn’t work.’

  ‘It didn’t?’

  Sam gritted his teeth. ‘I forgot to turn on the oven temperature.’

  She made a small round O with her lips and turned silently on her heel. ‘Fine. Have the children eaten?’

  ‘They had sweets—they’re in the bath now.’

  ‘Sweets won’t keep them going—’

  ‘They had a king-sized Mars bar each.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘It’s the first time—’

  ‘And the last. I bet they didn’t tell you they aren’t allowed king-sized Mars bars because they can’t eat their supper afterwards?’

  ‘No, they didn’t,’ he snapped, ‘but as I’ve fouled up in that department again, perhaps it’s just as well they’re not hungry!’

  He stomped over to the sink, and Sally had to hold herself down to stop herself from hugging him.

  No, she didn’t! What was she thinking about?

  She went up behind him and slid her arms round his waist.

  He stiffened instantly and turned in her arms, his hands held out to the side. Reaching up on tiptoe, she kissed him gently on the lips.

  ‘What’s that for?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Because you look as if you’ve had a lousy day— because I’m sorry you’ve cut your thumb—because…’ She hesitated. Because what? Because she loved him? The realisation struck her with all the force of a truck. She mustn’t tell him, though—not yet, so soon. There was too much still to be done, too much ground to cover before their relationship was truly stable and back on track again. She reached up and brushed his hair off his forehead, so that she could touch him. ‘Just because,’ she finished huskily.