He smiled, and Shelagh waited with bated breath for his verdict.
‘I’ve told her that she needs an operation as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘I shall need to do a radical hysterectomy without delay – uterus, ovaries, tubes and any lymph glands in the area, a complete pelvic clearance.’
Shelagh gasped and put her hand to her mouth. She stared at the consultant, eyes wide.
‘Yes, Mr Kydd,’ she whispered.
‘So, my dear, I’d like to admit her on Monday next, for surgery on Wednesday. We’ll need to do the usual tests, and cross-match a couple of pints of blood. You know as well as I do what the prognosis is likely to be. I’ve left Mrs Hammond – she doesn’t approve of first names! – a glimmer of hope, and I offer that glimmer to you, Shelagh. We’ll follow the operation with a course of chemotherapy, and possible radium, depending on how she responds. It’s going to be difficult for you, Shelagh, and we’ll arrange for social services to visit and give some daily help when she’s discharged. She says she doesn’t want it, and I didn’t waste my time arguing with her, because I feel pretty sure that she will change her mind after the op.’ He drew a long breath and added, ‘I’m so sorry, my dear. We’ll all rally round on obs and gynae, you know that you are highly valued.’
She gave a wintry smile. ‘Thank you, Mr Kydd, I appreciate your frankness.’ She rose from her chair. ‘I’ll get my mother admitted on Monday.’
‘Good. I’ll speak to Sister Kelly on Gynae about a single room. We must provide the very best care for Dr Hammond’s mother!’
‘I’ll encourage her as much as I can, Mr Kydd.’
‘And I’ll do my best for her, Shelagh,’ he said as they shook hands.
‘Mum! Oh, Mum, I’ve been dying to tell you for weeks, such wonderful news, but I had to wait to be really sure!’ Jenny Gifford’s excited voice came across the phone, and Phyllis Maynard immediately knew what she was about to hear.
‘Go on, dear, what is it?’ she asked, allowing Jenny the pleasure of breaking good news.
‘It’s fifty-seven days, Mum! I realised at Dad’s funeral that I’d missed a period, and put it down to the shock, but now I’ve missed another! Fifty-seven days since the first day of my last period – that’s over eight weeks – I’m into the third month!’
‘Jenny dear, that’s wonderful news,’ said Phyllis, tears springing to her eyes at hearing the joy in her daughter’s voice. Jenny was now thirty-two and after four years of marriage there had been no news of a baby. All sorts of measures had been tried: the keeping of a daily temperature chart which was supposed to show a slight rise at the time of ovulation, in the middle of the monthly cycle. A lady gynaecologist had suggested that Jenny should obtain a specimen of her vaginal secretion at this time, and examine it for its elasticity, pulling it between two spoons and noting if it stretched into a long, jelly-like strand; if so, that was the right time to have intercourse. Tim had undergone many sperm counts, all of which had been normal.
‘But it was that suggestion the science master made that’s done the trick,’ Jenny went on. ‘The fact that elephants’ testicles are within their bodies until the mating season, when they descend and can be seen, suggesting that they need a cooler environment to produce sperm – and it’s worked!’
Phyllis suppressed a smile, remembering how Tim had sat in a cold bath with ice cubes floating around him to ensure coolness before intercourse. Poor Tim! She had been sceptical, but now it had appeared to have the desired results. A baby at last!
‘It’ll make all the difference to Christmas, Mum, our first without Dad – you’ll be coming to us this year, and I’ll come to church with you and belt out “Silent Night”!’
What a comfort she was, this elder daughter of hers, thought Phyllis gratefully. Living near each other as they did, a baby would be the centre of their world.
‘Let’s go shopping on Saturday, Mum – we’ll have a look in Mothercare and see what they’ve got. Marion dressed her two in cosy little sleeping suits.’
‘It’s much too early to go shopping, dear, we’ll have to be really sure,’ warned Phyllis cautiously.
‘But I am sure, Mum, I can feel it down here in my pelvis, it’s there!’
Lord, let it be true, Phyllis prayed silently. Let them have their wish, please, let it be!
Saturday was chilly but fine, and Jenny appeared at the door early, ready to go ‘window shopping’ in Mothercare. There she and her mother looked at cots, clothes and little toys to dangle from the top of the cot or pram. In the maternity-wear section Jenny noticed a beautiful dress in midnight-blue velvet.
‘Isn’t it exquisite, Mum? I’m tempted to buy it now, before it gets sold. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.’
‘I’ll get it for you, dear,’ said Phyllis, though the dress was quite expensive, and as she paid for it, she told herself silently that with the addition of a soft leather belt it would be a good dress for formal occasions if by any sad chance …
That was when Jenny caught sight of the bear.
‘Mum! Just look at that gorgeous teddy bear, up on the shelf, see, the one with the red bow tie!’
Phyllis agreed that he was a handsome fellow with a smiley face, but—
Jenny was asking to see the bear, and took him from the assistant’s hand. ‘Feel him, Mum, he’s so soft and cuddly – mmm!’
Like the dress, the bear was expensive, but Phyllis could not deny her daughter. The salesgirl put him into a Mothercare bag, which Jenny put into her own shopping bag, leaving his head sticking out above it.
‘Definitely a case of love at first sight,’ smiled the assistant as they turned to leave the store with their purchases. They ran straight into a notorious gossip as she was emerging from the hairdresser’s.
‘Oho!’ she said at the sight of the bear. ‘Isn’t he adorable? Now I wonder who he’s going to belong to!’
Phyllis started to say that it was early days yet, but Jenny’s shining eyes were answer enough for the interested lady. ‘So you’ve managed it at last – well done! Congratulations!’
‘We’re not saying anything yet,’ said Phyllis hastily, but it was too late. Jenny Gifford’s news would soon be all over Everham, and by Monday morning it had reached Everham Primary School.
‘We’re all so happy for you, Jenny,’ chorused her colleagues in the staff room, and even the headmaster came to her classroom.
‘Glad to hear your news, Mrs Gifford,’ he said quietly, using the formal address in front of the children. ‘And it will give your mother something to look forward to – good timing!’
‘Thank you, Mr North,’ she said, blushing happily, and he left the room with his unspoken thoughts: trouble is, the little buggers grow up. I wish them better luck than we’ve had.
Sister Kelly, buxom and bustling, showed Bridget Hammond into the single room on the gynaecological ward which was to be hers during her stay in hospital, with its en suite bathroom and toilet, moveable bed-table, locker and call-bell.
‘All you have to do is press that, and a nurse will come to answer it, Mrs Hammond. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee now?’
When Shelagh went to see her mother at lunchtime, she was relieved to find Bridget clearly impressed.
‘It’s better than I expected, girl. Ye never told me it was like one o’ them four-star hotels where grand folks go for their holidays!’
Shelagh smiled affectionately, looking down on the worn, blue-veined hands clasped together over her prayer book; her mother was very different from the suspicious, defiant woman of a week ago.
‘Is there anything you’d like me to bring in for you, Mother? Lemon squash? A magazine? More tissues?’
‘I’m fine, I’ve got me rosary and me missal, that’s all I need. Ye’re a good girl, Shelagh, and aren’t you the fine lady doctor, in your white coat and your what’s-it-called hangin’ round your neck? It’s like seein’ ye for the first time.’
Shelagh had seldom heard such praise since childhood. She kisse
d the pale, papery cheek, and then went straight to the hospital chapel where she knelt and prayed earnestly for her mother – and for herself, that she might have sufficient courage and stamina to face the critical days following the operation.
Paul Sykes caught up with her in the doctors’ mess. The dining room adjoined a smaller one called the smoking room, though smoking was beginning to be discouraged in the hospital. They were alone here, and he drew her towards him.
‘Shelagh, you poor darling, I’m so sorry about your mother. Harry Kydd’s not wasting any time, is he? She’s in good hands – he’s the best gynaecologist in the county.’
‘I’m trying to be calm and sensible, Paul, but I won’t have a minute’s peace until the op’s over. She’s first on the list for Wednesday morning – oh, Paul!’ She clung to him, unable to stop the tears from falling. He held her close against him, stroking her hair and whispering reassurances.
‘I’ve got an idea, darling – we’re both free tomorrow evening, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, it’s the night before her operation, and I’ll spend it with her.’
‘Why not let me take you out to dinner?’
‘Oh, no, Paul, my place will be beside my mother. It’s terribly kind of you, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry, but—’ She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘Actually, darling, it would be best for both of you. She needs the rest and you deserve a little treat, rather than sitting with her and going over the details of the op again. Trust me, it would be a good idea.’
Shelagh reluctantly but firmly repeated that she could not leave her mother, but thanked him for his kindness, and they kissed hastily as they heard the door open on medical staff arriving for lunch.
When Shelagh went to Bridget’s room on the following morning, she found her full of praise for the staff.
‘That nice Sister Kelly makes Irish lace the same as me mother used to,’ she said, ‘and I’ll try me hand at it when I get out o’ here. And that cheeky young feller who came to see me last night, talk about daft Mick, he was so funny!’
‘What, a doctor?’ asked Shelagh.
‘Sure, what else could he have been, him with the white coat an’ all? He was talkin’ about me goin’ for me op tomorrow.’
Shelagh supposed he had been the anaesthetist, visiting his pre-op patients, but she was grateful to him.
‘This time tomorrow, Mother, it will all be over, and you’ll be back here in your own room,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll come in this evening to—’
‘No, girl, don’t come this evenin’, Father Orlando’s comin’ over from Our Lady o’ Pity to give me the Last Rites, so I want to be left in peace, before and after.’
‘Oh, Mother! That won’t be necessary, you’ll get over the operation, and feel a new woman!’ Shelagh remonstrated. ‘Let me ask the Catholic chaplain to come and see you.’
‘No, Shelagh, Father Orlando knows me, and he’s bringin’ me the Holy Sacrament, in case I don’t come round,’ Bridget insisted. ‘Sister Kelly’s fixed it up wid him for me. Besides, there’s no sense in you and me sittin’ and goin’ over it again and again, is there?’
Shelagh noticed her unconscious repetition of Paul’s words, and agreed that she would come to visit after the operation, on the following day. As she kissed her mother, she decided to phone Paul straight away and gladly accept his invitation.
‘That’s great news, darling,’ he said. ‘Your dear mum sounds a very sensible lady. I’ll pick you up from home at half past six, all right? We’ll go to the Mitre, that’s a good way off, away from this place and all the tittle-tattlers, OK?’
‘That sounds wonderful, Paul, I’ll expect you at six-thirty,’ she said, adding to herself, ready and waiting for you, my love. The anxiety over her mother had made her feel more strongly her need for Paul Sykes’ love; she revelled in the comfort of it, even though the secrecy from her mother bothered her.
What to wear? She looked through her skirts, long and short, and decided on a soft wool dress in a paisley pattern. She swept her hair back into an elegant coil, secured with a silver clip. With long earrings and a necklace of semi-precious stones, she would look at her best, or nearly her best, she thought, applying a hint of blusher to her pale cheeks. A spray of the perfume Paul had given her completed her preparation and gave her confidence, even at this testing time, and although she longed for her mother’s operation to be over, the thought of the Last Rites no longer seemed a matter of life or death, but rather a somewhat extreme caution on Bridget’s part.
Seeing her standing at the door, Paul could only murmur, ‘You look stunning, Shelagh, absolutely stunning,’ and all her efforts seemed worthwhile.
On the drive through the dark Hampshire countryside, he enquired about her mother, and she longed to lay her head on his shoulder and confide her deepest fears to him, but this was to be his treat for her, and she merely replied that her mother seemed more relaxed and rested; closing her eyes momentarily, she saw again Bridget’s calm face on the pillows, her hands folded over her prayer book.
A few tables were already occupied at the Mitre when they arrived; Paul had booked a table near a curtained window, and helped her off with her navy fleece-lined jacket before pulling out a chair for her to sit down at the candlelit table. It was a perfect romantic setting, a handsome couple dining together.
‘What will you drink, darling? We’d better order now while we’re waiting to be served. Look, here’s the menu – we must decide what we’re having. I’m ready for my dinner, aren’t you?’
Shelagh smiled, but to her dismay felt the beginnings of a headache which she would have to conceal. She realised how tired she was, how the events of this week had told on her, and secretly thought it would have been better for them to have spent the evening at her home, enjoying a light salad supper.
The waiter took orders for wine, white for Shelagh, red for Paul who put his hand over hers on the table. ‘To tell you the truth, I almost called off this evening, darling, and settled for baked beans on toast at your place, only it seemed a cheek – and I know how much you want to get away from things, so I left it as we arranged.’
She could only smile to hide her disappointment at losing a quiet evening in, but only said, ‘It’s so good of you, Paul,’ and raised her glass to clink against his.
‘Here’s to your mum, Shelagh – a happy outcome!’
When the waiter brought the halibut steak for her and rump steak for him, they heard a woman’s peal of laughter in the middle of the room. When Shelagh looked, she saw to her immense chagrin that the sound came from two girls and a man – Tanya Dickenson, Laurie Moffatt and Leigh McDowall. Paul saw them too.
‘My God, that chap knows how to enjoy himself! He’s bagged the two best-looking midwives – d’you think he’s carrying on with them both?’
‘I neither know nor care,’ she answered, averting her gaze. What on earth would the trio think, to see her out with Paul on the evening before her mother’s serious operation?
‘Well, as long as they don’t see us and come over,’ she said, trying to speak lightly.
Paul rolled his eyes. ‘Knowing him, he probably will, all nudge, nudge, wink, wink—’
Oh, no, I just couldn’t bear it, thought Shelagh, hardly able to cut into the fish with parsley sauce, for which she had lost all appetite. And in front of that supercilious Sister Dickenson, it was just too awful.
‘Please don’t look in their direction, Paul.’
A roar of welcome went up from the threesome as a latecomer joined them, sitting down beside Laurie and kissing her apologetically. She smiled up at him, and Shelagh caught herself staring at them. So they were a foursome, with McDowall partnering Tanya who seemed to be returning his teasing banter with much amusement.
‘Roger, old sport, so you’ve come to join us after all!’ said McDowall. ‘It’s been hard work for me, keeping Laurie satisfied as well as Tanya!’ More laughter.
‘Do you recognise the la
te arrival?’ asked Paul. ‘I don’t. Is he at Everham Park?’
‘Sometimes,’ muttered Shelagh. ‘He’s Roger Stedman, a freelance photographer, and comes to Maternity to take photos of the newborns. They’re quite good, actually.’
Suddenly a sensation of utter weariness descended on her, and she could eat no more. She declined the dessert, and only accepted coffee because Paul ordered it. Her head swam, and the jolly foursome and all the other diners receded into a grey mist: she could not follow what Paul was saying, and longed only for the peace and privacy of her home and bed.
‘Let’s go, Paul. Please, let’s go.’
‘Darling, what’s the matter? You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’
‘I’m all right, except that I’m so tired, and it’s going to be a long day tomorrow.’
‘All right, I’ll take you straight home. Here’s your jacket, and I’ll go and pay the bill. Wait for just a minute.’
She sat there taking deep breaths to clear her head and ward off nausea until he returned and took her arm to lead her out of the restaurant and to his red Saab in the car park. Little was said on the journey home, and when they reached Alexandra Road, he helped her out and escorted her to the front door.
‘I’m so sorry, Paul. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll say goodnight here.’
‘Goodnight, darling. I’m sorry too, but never mind. We should have settled for baked beans on toast after all! Get a good night’s sleep, and you’ll be better after your mum’s had her op.’
They kissed briefly, and she went in and closed the door, utterly relieved to be home and alone. What a disaster of an evening, and what bad luck about McDowall and his friends. What on earth must they think of such an uncaring daughter? Damnation.
Paul drove back to the house in North Camp that he rented with two male medical colleagues and a laboratory technician. What a disaster of an evening. It had been a mistake, and any hopes he had cherished of extending it in the privacy of her little place for an hour or two were well and truly scuttled. Bugger.
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