‘Have you told your daughter yet?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Yes, they were there when he died. They’ve gone back home now to pick up the babe, and they’re coming back here later. I think they’re worried I’ll do something stupid.’
‘And will you?’ Sam asked gently.
She smiled, a sad, wistful smile. ‘Oh, no. I’ve had plenty of time to get used to the idea. To be honest, there’s a million and one things I’ve been putting off because Fred wouldn’t have liked me doing them. I thought, once things settled a bit, I might work with the WRVS for the Meals on Wheels. He didn’t approve of women doing things outside the home, but it isn’t always enough for everybody. Take your wife, for instance. A clever girl like her’s wasted shoving the vacuum round the floor all day.’
Sam nodded slowly. Mrs Lucas was right, Sally was clever and being trapped at home was killing her, as well as being a terrible waste of her talent.
He stood up. ‘Talking of my wife, I suppose I ought to go home. Will you be all right now?’
‘I suppose so,’ she murmured. ‘It’ll take a bit of getting used to after all these years, but I’ll keep busy, and I dare say I’ll get used to it.’
‘Call me if you need me—just for a chat, or to give you something to help you sleep—whatever. I’m always around.’
Mrs Lucas reached up and patted his cheek. ‘Thank you, dear. You’re very kind. I’m sorry I made a fool of myself.’
‘Not at all. If you didn’t cry I’d be much more worried about you.’
He stopped and brushed a kiss against her cheek. ‘Take care, my dear. And don’t forget, if you need me, call.’
‘I will.’
He glanced back as he got in the car, and he saw her wave before the net curtain fell softly back into place, shielding her grief from prying eyes.
Sam drove thoughtfuly home. Poor old thing; all those years with that crabby old man and she could still manage to grieve for him. He must have shown her a different, more gentle side.
Nobody was really what they seemed, Sam mused. Take Sally, outwardly performing her role without complaint, inwardly seething with resentment.
Why hadn’t she talked to him before?
Because, he realised, he hadn’t been exactly receptive. He wasn’t sure how receptive he was even now. The past week at home doing Sally’s job had been a relief, really. He had been finding the pressure of the practice more and more difficult to deal with, and the mundane chores and mindless tasks were almost therapeutic.
Almost. The drama of the tumble-drier still lingered in his memory as a terrifyingly close shave, and the episode of the pansies was gone but not forgotten.
And he still, of course, had to manage to produce a meal they could all enjoy without reservation.
Even so, it was still a welcome change from the pressures of work, and he couldn’t imagine why Sally was in such a hurry to abandon ship.
Perhaps the next two weeks would help to clarify things.
On Tuesday, Sally went to visit Jo Clarke and her new baby Thomas at home. Mrs Clarke’s mother was there, and greeted Sally with a frown.
‘Are you the doctor that worried my daughter to death?’ she asked sternly.
Sally was a little taken aback. ‘Not intentionally,’ she told her. ‘I was concerned, though, and did what I felt was right for the sake of the baby had there been a defect in his heart. I’m sorry you find my concern so difficult to accept. Would you rather I’d done nothing and the baby had suffered?’
The woman climbed down a little, a difficult task without losing face. ‘I suppose you did what you thought was right,’ she muttered. ‘They’re in here, but don’t you tire them out.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs…?’
‘Davis. Mrs Davis.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Davis, but I think, if you don’t mind, I’d like to see your daughter alone—and I believe you’ll find her well-being is safe in my hands.’
And Sally shut the door firmly in the woman’s face.
‘Is she being a pain?’ Jo Clarke asked softly.
‘No, she’s just very protective. I think she must have been very worried about you both.’
‘Oh, don’t—I was so scared that night, before they induced me. I managed to convince myself I would lose the baby, despite all they said to reassure me. The hospital were ever so good, but I was just so terrified.’
‘I’m sure.’ Sally perched on the chair near Jo and studied her with a smile. ‘You look well enough.’
‘Oh, I feel wonderful. It was a lovely easy deliverymuch better than the first, and when they said he was all right, well—I think I nearly cried my eyes out!’
Sally smiled with her, then peered into the carry-cot beside the settee. ‘He’s a good big fellow, isn’t he?’
‘Three and a half kilos—nearly eight pounds, isn’t it?’
‘Something like that. I have to have a look at him, but I hate to wake him.’
‘Don’t worry,’ his mother assured Sally, ‘he’s due for a feed any time now, so you can carry on. Just be prepared for his temper when you wake him and don’t feed him!’
Sally laughed and turned back the bedclothes. He seemed tiny, little bent-up legs with tiny feet and toes, the nails like transparent shells. It brought so much back to Sally, the pain and the pleasure, the sleepless nights, the worry, not knowing how to cope with such an aggressively demanding little scrap.
Young Thomas Clarke opened his eyes then and stared at her, then let out a protracted wail.
‘Sorry, little fellow,’ Sally crooned, and examined him as quickly as she could.
‘Do you want him now? He seems to be starving,’ she said to Jo.
‘Please. All that crying’s got my milk pouring out!’
She quickly settled herself against the arm of the settee, and Sally scooped up young Thomas and laid him gently in his mother’s arms.
Within seconds there was a blissful silence, broken only by the steady noise of his sucking.
‘One happy baby,’ Sally said with a smile. ‘Well, he seems fine. I’m sorry I got you so worked up, but I really felt it was too important not to follow up.’
Jo laughed ruefully. ‘That’s all right. I know you acted for the best. I’m glad, really, because now it’s over and he’s fine and life can go on, you know? You don’t want to pay any attention to Mum, though. She was frantic, and nothing I could say would calm her down. Actually,’ Jo confided, with a low laugh, ‘she made me worse!’
Sally could well believe it. She made her goodbyes to Jo and baby Thomas, and managed to slip out of the front door without encountering the dreaded Mrs Davis again.
As she drove back to the surgery, she reflected on the vast differences between people; those who, like Mrs Davis, found fault in over-cautiousness, and others, like Sue Palmer and her husband, who actually thanked her for what Sally felt was bordering on negligence.
Thank God for variety, she thought, because otherwise it could be intolerable—especially if the world were made up of people like Mrs Davis!
She had another call to make that day, to David Jones, the man with shingles.
He was still in a lot of pain, so she increased his medication and gave him a mild sleeping-pill to take just for a few nights to see him through the worst.
‘It’s the crusts,’ he said miserably. ‘They seem to catch on things and when they lift off, it’s as if they’re attached to the nerve-endings.’
‘Well, in a way they are,’ Sally told him. ‘That’s why it can be such an acutely painful condition. You might be better not wearing anything on your top, just the sheet, so you haven’t got things twisting round on you if you turn over in the bed.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll try that. Thank you, Dr Alexander. I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.’
‘You’re not a nuisance. I’m here to help,’ she assured him.
It was a comforting thought that, for some of her patients at least, she was actually able to do something truly
useful.
It was a long time since she’d felt really needed—except by her own children, of course, but that was rather different. This made her feel like a million dollars, and she breezed back into the surgery humming softly under her breath.
‘Someone’s happy,’ a strange voice said, and she turned to see a man in a suit standing in the reception office. ‘Dick Price,’ he offered. ‘Baker Pharmaceuticals. You must be Sam’s wife.’
‘That’s right—Sally. What can I do for you?’
He grinned. ‘Well, I had an appointment with Sam, but the ladies tell me he’s bottled out and left you holding the baby.’
Sally laughed. ‘Actually it’s rather the other way round. Shall we go in my office?’
They chatted for a while, then he stood up to go, having left Sally some samples and various desk toys, notepads and other gismos.
She saw him out to his car and then headed for home herself. It was her evening off, and she was looking forward to a nice, quiet few hours in front of the television. Nothing demanding—perhaps a film or something light, or maybe they’d listen to music.
The work was getting to her. Not the amount, but the relentlessness of it, the fact of never having any time to herself, of having to fit in with other people all the time and do things to a structured timetable.
It was necessary, but after ten years out it was also foreign to her.
Deep in thought, she was driving along the quiet country road leading to their home when something glinted in the field below the road.
Odd, she thought. After a few more seconds she began to worry. It was probably nothing, but the road was high at that point, and there could easily have been something there—a car, for instance—which might have remained hidden for some time.
She pulled up and turned round, driving slowly back along the other side of the road.
Nothing.
She turned again and headed back towards home, and then she saw it—the edge of a car roof, the glass of the rear screen glinting in the low evening sun.
She pulled over and switched off the engine, climbed out of the car and headed towards the bank. She could see the car clearly now, half on its side, wedged in the angle of the bank.
‘Hello?’ she called, and as she listened she could hear the quiet hum of an engine.
She didn’t hesitate another moment. Plunging down the bank, she ran round to the front of the car and peered in through the shattered windscreen.
A middle-aged couple were lying there, the man half-across the woman, who was dabbing ineffectually at blood oozing from his head. He was clearly unconscious, and she was trapped by his weight, unable to move.
Sally tapped on the windscreen. ‘Open your window,’ she yelled.
‘I can’t!’ the woman called back. ‘They’re electric, and he’s lying on the switches!’
‘Open the sunroof, then!’
‘I can’t—my arm isn’t long enough. I’ve tried.’
Sally looked around and found a hefty branch snapped off in their descent. She would have to smash the windscreen to turn off the engine, because there was an awful smell of leaking petrol and she had a nasty feeling.
‘Cover your faces!’ she shouted, and, swinging the branch, she knocked in the remains of the windscreen.
Glass went everywhere, but she ignored it, scrambling over the bonnet and reaching in to turn off the ignition.
The silence was wonderful, but Sally’s relief was short-lived. The smell of petrol was getting worse, and she was terribly afraid she wouldn’t be able to get them out in time.
‘Are you hurt?’ she asked the woman.
‘No—no,’I don’t think so. Bernard’s unconscious.’
‘Yes, I can see. Keep talking to him, it might help him wake up.’ She wasn’t going to be able to reach the seatbelt buckles. That left only one alternative. ‘I’m going to cut through your seatbelts with scissors,’ she told the woman, ‘and try and get you out. OK?’
The woman nodded and, wasting no time, Sally scrambled back up the bank, got the scissors out of her medical bag and headed back towards the bank. Then she turned back to her car, opened the doors and turned on her hazard flashers. Hopefully it would attract someone’s attention. If only she’d been on duty, she would have had her mobile phone with her, but without it she was helpless.
She ran back down to the car and leant in through the windscreen.
‘Are you sure you’re not hurt?’ she checked again with the woman.
‘No, I’m fine, and Bernard seems to be coming round.’
Sally was relieved to hear it, because he was a big man and the thought of dragging him out over the dashboard single-handed and with untold injuries was too awful to contemplate.
So, unfortunately, was the idea of leaving them there to fry if the petrol suddenly went up.
‘Bernard?’ she yelled. ‘Bernard, can you hear me?’
He moaned and opened his eyes, then shut them again with a groan.
‘Bernard, listen, this is important. You’ve had a car accident, and you need to help me to get you out. Bernard, open your eyes!’
They fluttered, then opened again, this time more definitely.
‘Who are you?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘My name’s Sally Alexander—I’m a doctor. Bernard, I want you to tell me if you’ve got any pain anywhere apart from your head.’
He shifted a little, then shook his head carefully. ‘No. Only my head and the odd twinge.’
‘Can you feel your feet? Wiggle your toes.’
‘They’re fine.’
‘Good. Right. I want you to help me. I’m going to cut through your seatbelt, and then I want you to try and climb out. The doors won’t open, so you have to come out through the windscreen. OK?’
He closed his eyes. ‘My head hurts like hell,’ he muttered.
‘I’m sure. Bernard, please help me. I don’t want to worry you, but there’s a strong smell of petrol and I want you both out of there fast.’
His head jerked up and he looked round at his wife. ‘Louise? Are you all right?’
‘Yes—please, Bernard, just get out like Sally says.’
He braced his arms against the lower door and Sally cut him free, then with a massive effort he pulled himself up and crawled carefully over his wife and out through the jagged opening.
‘Louise, can you get out now?’ Sally asked as soon as Bernard was clear.
‘I’ll try.’ She fumbled with the seatbelt buckle, her fingers shaking like leaves, and then Sally leant in and helped her up and out.
‘Right, let’s get you well away from the car as quickly as possible,’ she said to them both, and, with an arm round each of them, she hurried them over the uneven plough towards the bank.
‘Get up there, away from the fumes,’ she told Louise, and half pushing her, half dragging Bernard, she managed to get them to the top. As she did so, there was a deep boom from behind her and everything went black.
CHAPTER SIX
SAM was worried sick. Sally was due home early today, and here it was almost seven and still there was no sign of her.
He rang the surgery and spoke to Steve Dalton, the other partner, who was just leaving.
‘No, haven’t seen her for ages, Sam. She left about five with the Baker rep.’
Sam cradled the receiver with a crash and swore softly under his breath. Dick Price was an outrageous flirt, and the very last person he would have imagined Sally to go off with. So what the hell was she doing out so late with him?
Having dinner?
But he’d made dinner!
And, for once, it seemed possible that it might not be too awful.
So where the hell was she?
‘Bloody hell!’ he muttered.
‘Daddy! You sweared!’
He turned and stared blankly at Molly’s shocked little face.
‘Sorry, darling. Have you done your homework?’
‘Mmm-hmm. Can I have a sweetie?’
‘OK.’ Sally would kill him, but so what? If she was that worried about her kids, she’d be here, not out with that bloody fast-talking smoothie—
‘Daddy! You’re squashing me!’
He looked down at Molly’s little hand crushed in his big fist, and rubbed it gently, stricken. ‘Sorry, darling. Did I hurt you?’
‘Only a bit. Can I have two sweets?’
He laughed and ruffled her hair. ‘I expect so. Where’s Ben?’
‘In the sitting-room watching a video.’
‘Has he done his homework?’
Molly shook her head. ‘Don’t think so.’
Sam went into the sitting-room and left Molly foraging in the bag of sweets they had talked him into after school.
‘Ben?’
His son jumped guiltily. ‘Yes?’
‘Have you done your homework?’
‘I can’t—I forgot my neat book.’
‘So do it on a piece of paper and take it in, then you can copy it out tomorrow night.’
‘That means doing it twice!’ Ben protested.
Sam, unmoved, turned off the television. ‘Tough. You should have thought of that when you left the book behind. Do it now, please.’
Ben’s chin stuck out mutinously. ‘Mummy wouldn’t make me——’
‘Well, too bad. Your mother isn’t here. I am, and I’m making you. Now move it!’
Ben flounced past him, slamming the door and leaving Sam in a ringing silence.
His shoulders drooped. Where was she? It was no good trying the mobile; Steve had that with him as he was on duty.
He threw himself down on the settee and flicked on the television, catching the tail-end of the local news programme.
What if she’d had an accident? No. More likely Dick Price had talked her into a meal and they were snuggled up in some intimate little restaurant somewhere having a cosy chat!
He made a conscious effort to relax, unfolding his fingers and watching as the blood flowed back into his white knuckles.
Taken For Granted Page 8
