Angel Kate

by Ramsay, Anna

  'Tom's always told me everything,' she said out loud, 'right since he were knee-high to a grasshopper. That woman broke his heart when she was in medical school and he were learning how to be a surgeon. Didn't see her for years, did he, not till he got consultant-like. Open your eyes, Tom. There's other women out there. Nurse Kate for a start…'

  * * *

  'You're in the Painted Room. On your left at the top of the stairs. Go ahead, I'll bring your case.'

  Tom followed, carrying her bag in his good hand and enjoying a close-up view of Kate's flawless bare legs. He could almost see her knickers, her skirt was so short. Pink silk again? he wondered, smiling at his secret thoughts.

  He flung wide the first door they came to and Kate's jaw dropped.

  Above her head, was a painted medieval ceiling, a stylised design of honeysuckle that had once been a rich terracotta but was now faded to a pinky brown. She was to sleep beneath a ceiling a craftsman had painted hundreds of years ago. How amazing!

  'Quite something isn't it,' agreed Tom. 'So many of these medieval ceilings got painted over.'

  Kate was lost for words. This beat any six-star hotel bedroom. 'I feel as if I've stepped back in time for hundreds of years,' she whispered, turning in a slow circle, her head tilted back, her hair falling almost to her waist …

  Two windows with sills so deep you could curl up there on padded tapestry cushions. Old oak furniture and a plump paisley eiderdown to match the curtains on the half-tester bed.

  'Granny's bed,' said Tom, 'she died in this room. 'Never took to a duvet.'

  'Oh I'm sorry,' said Kate politely. It didn't worry her in the least and the idea of sleeping in such a historic room was thrilling.

  'New mattress though. Nice pocket-sprung job. See?' Tom sat on the bed and demonstrated how good the springs were while Kate gazed at him wide-eyed, thinking to herself here was Mr Galvan, neuro-surgeon extraordinaire, bouncing on her bed!

  'Your bathroom's just along the corridor,' said Tom casually. He was enjoying Kate's delight in his precious home. 'And in case I need a bit of TLC in the night, that door in the panelling leads to my bedroom.'

  'Door?' Kate was puzzled.

  Tom showed her. 'It's very low so be careful. I've had some nasty cracks on that.'

  This casual warning brought Kate back down to earth. Such a very convenient arrangement for accommodating his women friends.

  A nurse, of course, didn't come into this category. It was sensible to have her within calling distance, of course it was…

  Was this Diana's room? Were there traces of her lovely perfume?

  You are so pathetically naïve! scoffed an inner voice. Diana sleeps in Tom's room …

  Tom was about to open the low door and lead her into his bedroom. For some reason this threw Kate into a panic and she flung a hand out to delay him. 'I'd better unpack before my clothes get creased.'

  'That's not going to take you five minutes. I'll be over at the pool. I feel like a swim and it's your job to stop me.'

  Here we go! Kate swallowed and tried to sound authoritative. 'I must take your blood pressure and check you over,' she said, unzipping her wheeled suitcase.

  'Diana's been seeing to all that. I'm fine.'

  Kate didn't say it aloud but she had come here to work and she'd concede with his wishes only till she'd found her feet and could organise their routine. Daily checks, massages, brisk walks. Every single day.

  When she was alone Kate opened the windows, craning her neck in vain for a view of Tom's wretched swimming pool.

  There was Lottie, bathed in late-May sunshine. She must move her into the shade. Maybe put her in one of the barns since there was no sign of anything so modern as a garage.

  It had been really sweet of James to offer the loan of his car, but really there was only one sensible thing to do. Cycling to work in the rain was no fun, nor was dragging heavy shopping bags home on foot. She must stop playing the martyr, punishing herself for the frivolous wasted years.

  Buying Lottie was a statement. Move over Austerity Kate, bring in Katie Wisdom in new lighter mode. It had been silly to try to manage with just a bicycle. And silly to think a bit of makeup meant you were vain and self-obsessed. Going bare-faced wasn't a virtue, for goodness' sake.

  She'd Diana to thank for bringing her to her senses.

  Chapter Ten

  Kate stacked her clothes on the bed. The dress she was wearing was the only pretty thing she'd brought with her. Everything else was her 'uniform' for the next two weeks.

  Tom wouldn't give her a second glance in this lot. The good bits would be next to her skin, but he wouldn't get to see those unless - heaven forbid!- there was another catastrophe.

  Kate found what she was looking for. She set the silver frame on the table next to her bed and in this unfamiliar setting Ben's face startled her afresh in its resemblance to his father. Yes, Kate could see herself in the child too: Olwen was absolutely right.

  Someone had lined the drawers of the dark wood chest with delicately rose-perfumed paper. Too good for this lot! frowned Kate, banging the drawers shut in a flare of frustration. She felt very alive, very self-aware. And that was dangerous, because there was only one reason for it. The reality of being back with Tom, and the prospect of summer nights with the two of them just paces away from each other …

  Pull yourself together, RGN Wisdom! warned her conscience. This man is not available—and neither are you. You promised it was just a crush and that you could handle yourself and this job. You had no right to come here otherwise. That's why you brought white tops and dark skirts, remember? So you'd look like a nurse and not some lovesick idiot. Now get on with it. Change into clothes that make you look like the professional you're supposed to be… private nurse to a VIP patient.

  Kate's thoughts now began to run out of control. Tom looks so gorgeous with that beard… how am I going to tear my eyes off him? She pulled her dress over her head and hung it on a hanger in the wardrobe, slipped on a white cotton blouse and a knee-length navy skirt. Would someone kindly tell me how I'm supposed to keep my patient out of a swimming pool in his own home? And how does he think he's going to swim with a plastered arm.

  Five minutes later she was still worrying as she crossed the high-vaulted hall with its great fireplace and long refectory table. Why must Tom be so damn awkward? Why didn't he just tell the hospital, no way do I need any nurse here supervising me - not even Gertie.

  It wasn't hard to find her patient.

  Several bright-striped deckchairs caught her eye and there was the lord and master of Foxe Manor, long brown legs outstretched, one hand behind his head, plastered arm in its colourful sling resting across his bare brown chest. Discarded on the new-mown grass lay a crumpled linen shirt. Nearby was a folding table with a jug of Bess's home-made lemonade, two tall glasses and a platter of sticky flapjack cut into squares.

  'Oh, here you are,' said Kate shyly. Tom hauled himself up at her arrival, hampered by his unequal balance. 'No, please don't get up,' she said, trying to stay him with an outstretched hand.

  His eyes raked her over. 'You aren't dressed for a swim.'

  Kate looked at the pool and at Tom, saw this was another of his teases and sighed with relief. 'I guessed you were pulling my leg,' she fibbed.

  'Is that so?'

  'Well I've had plenty of time to get to know the way your mind works.'

  Even though his back was turned she could tell Tom was grinning as he poured the lemonade. 'Then I must put your theory to the test.'

  Kate shuddered. That was one foolish remark she wouldn't be allowed to forget.

  Deftly he slid two pieces of treacly flapjack onto her plate. Any other man with an arm in plaster would be clumsy. Did he think she was too skinny? …

  'Ice?' he asked and 'Yes please,' she said.

  Kate settled back in the deckchair and gazed up into the brilliant blue arc of the sky, plate balanced on her knee, the chilled glass cool and slippery in her two hands. Tom bes
ide her, the two of them munching Bess's scrummy homebake, wasn't this just bliss …

  Was it wrong to feel such a surge of happiness at being back with this man? Yes! It was disgraceful to feel this way about a patient. Away from the confines of a hospital room, it should be so much easier to crush her feelings. But here she was and her heart was beating so hard and she could barely swallow. And she hardly dared look at Tom because in spite of her provocative claim, she never knew what he was going to do next. While he could read her like a book!

  'Delicious flapjack,' she mumbled, trying to divert the conversation onto safer tracks.

  'I am most disappointed!'

  Kate looked puzzled. Whatever recipe Bess used, it surely couldn't be bettered.

  'Why have you changed, Kate.'

  Her eyes widened and she almost forgot to breathe. Changed? He was terrifyingly perceptive …

  'I liked you in that dress. Why did you take it off? And why do you drag your beautiful hair back like that. I wish you wouldn't.'

  Beautiful hair! Kate almost choked.

  'Women with long mermaid hair and long legs,' he said mysteriously. 'In short summer dresses.' Or red satin, he mused, picturing Kate in some slinky red number.

  She tugged at the hem of her narrow skirt and ran her fingers over the buttons of her white short-sleeved shirt. 'We discussed it, Mrs Harris and I. She said I didn't need to wear uniform but navy, black or white would be appropriate. So that's what I've brought.'

  Tom looked glum. If he wanted Kate in a uniform of scarlet satin and suspenders it was none of Harris's business!

  Well, at least she was here. He only had to reach out to touch her perfect pale skin as her skirt rode high on her thighs and the sun warmed her. To distract himself he said teasingly, 'So you like my swimming pool. It's teeming with little frogs. You do like frogs, don't you?'

  Basically Kate was a town girl. She sat up and peered into the murky green depths. There seemed to be a lot of weedy stuff, and here and there the bright gleam of a goldfish just below the surface. Not one frog in sight.

  'Frogs? I don't mind them.' She tried to feel positive about Tom's frogs, but her toes curled.

  'My grandmother had the swimming pool put in when George and I were boys. She thought it would help keep us out of mischief when we were home from boarding school.'

  'But where were your parents?'

  'Both killed in a car accident in Italy when I was seven and George was nine. It was their first holiday without us two in tow.'

  Kate didn't say anything but her hand clutched her throat. Tom hadn't finished though. There was more.

  'When he heard the news, Grandpa had a massive heart attack and died in the ambulance on the way to St Crispin's. So-o-o … then it was just Granny running this place with the help of Stan and Bess and a small team of workers from the village. There was a bit more money in those days. When Granny died, we got hit hard by death duties. I just about get by with renting the fields to local farmers. Why am I telling you all this? You can't possibly be interested.'

  Kate swivelled her body in the deckchair so she could look at him. 'If she could see you today, all you have achieved, wouldn't she be thrilled. Wouldn't she be proud.'

  Tom looked taken aback. For once he was lost for words. 'Go on,' prompted his listener.

  'Well. It has to be said George and I didn't make life easy for her. We were very physical boys. Falling out of trees, cutting our legs on rusty barbed wire … up to all sorts of mischief. But we always knew whatever scrape we got into, Granny would sort it out.'

  'Unconditional love,' murmured Kate, more to herself than to Tom.

  He heard her. 'Exactly. Eventually we went off to university. The pool didn't get much use after that. Granny told Stan not to bother with it. The bottom cracked and broke up so George and I dug it out and turned the thing into a sort of wildlife pond with water buttercup and willow moss, and pickerel weed. The waterlilies were Stan's idea. That's him, that little speck in the distance, spraying the apple trees in the orchard. My right-hand man is dear old Stan.'

  Kate's head was full of pictures of the schoolboy Tom. Just the sort of son she hoped she'd be lucky enough to have one day, all sturdy scabby knees and good-natured charm. Tom was watching swallows darting across the blue sky, his very grownup legs sprawling close to her slender white ones.

  A hundred questions hovered on her lips, but she stayed silently listening.

  'I used to imagine renovating the pool for my own children, but Diana tells me no one in their right mind would attempt to raise a family here.'

  Diana's actual words had been more forthright. 'Listen, Tom, I'm not Wonder Woman. I can't make jam and bring up half a dozen kids and appear on TV. And Foxe Manor's no place for bringing up children. It's too big—too spooky. Too far from playgroups and kindergartens and shops. You'll have to sell up, Tom. Think about it. Some rock star or Russian oligarch will pay a small fortune to get their hands on Foxe Manor.'

  Out of the blue came an idea. It was so obvious! Tom and his brother should share the house. 'Two families, Tom! Two incomes. Imagine all your children growing up here, just as you two boys did.'

  Tom smiled at her enthusiasm but shook his head. 'George is a professor at Harvard - we only see each other when I'm at conferences in Washington. If the Manor was sold I doubt he'd object, but he'd never put me under any pressure. He's not married, by the way. Just in case you were wondering.'

  Kate stared into the dark weedy waters of the pool. It wasn't George she was wondering about but Tom and Diana. Their recent time away together …

  'I expect it did your fiancée some good to have a break from television. You said she's a workaholic. You're a well-matched pair.'

  His face darkened but he said nothing.

  His silence was reproof, a warning that she'd been impertinent. Kate chewed her bottom lip; she really must guard her tongue. He'd been so friendly and welcoming and now she'd gone and spoilt it.

  He stayed silent. She dared not look at him, her fingers playing nervously with the buckle clasping back her hair. Tom's relationship with Diana was none of her business. That thoughtless comment was way out of order.

  Suddenly Tom pulled himself up from his deckchair and moved to the edge of the pool. To Kate's alarm he seemed to sway towards the dark green murk shifting gently below him. Fearing for his balance, she sprang up and moved swiftly to his side, linking her arm through his good one, trying to show him she was more sorry than words could convey.

  Tom stared across the pool to where the lawn ended in a low wall fronted by a hedge of spring-green beeches. On the meadow land beyond a herd of golden-brown Jersey cows could be seen peacefully grazing on the long sweet grass. His field, but rented out for extra income.

  'I'm thirty-eight. Soon be thirty-nine.' He seemed to be speaking to himself. Kate clung on to him wordlessly. 'There should be children playing here. This house is crying out to be a family home again.'

  It suddenly dawned on Kate … but it was inconceivable, surely. Impossible. What woman in her right mind would reject Tom Galvan? But had the impossible happened? Had he put pressure on Diana to give it all up and marry him, come and live here at Foxe Manor for good. And had she said no?

  Could it be that the television doctor … had turned her neuro-surgeon lover down?

  * * *

  In a mood that was a complicated mix of frustration and self-doubt, and had nothing to do with Dr Diamond or any other woman, Tom strode into his oak-panelled study and slammed the door on the rest of the world. Though he was unable to operate, he could still usefully immerse himself in his own investigations into the human pineal. Why should it be that this gland, occupying roughly just one per cent of the human brain, appeared to be vital to man's sense of direction? A third eye in the brain—that was how Descartes, French philosopher and mathematician, had once so aptly described the pineal. If the gland was not functioning, men lost their way.

  And here am I, mused Tom, three centuries
later, and one among many medic-detectives still trying to solve the pineal mystery.

  From his music collection he chose something to match his mood—Amfortas's Lament from Parsifal, loaded the disc and settled himself at his desk. Then he pressed the remote control button and the rich bass-baritone of Bryn Terfel filled the room and startled a pair of doves dozing peacefully on the windowsill. Amfortas, wounded by the Holy Spear, lamenting his suffering and begging release …

  Tom glowered at the papers spread over his desk. Could it be that his brain had, after all, been damaged? A weakening of that steely nerve so vital in his field of surgery. Supposing the arm healed one hundred per cent, as Jonathan so confidently predicted, was the mind going to prevent him ever taking up his scalpel again?

  The telephone bleeped. Tom pressed the remote, cutting Amfortas short. 'Yes?' he growled unhelpfully. 'Oh, it's you, Frank… How am I?'

  'I know you warned me this was likely to happen. That I'm going through body-image disturbance!… Yes yes, I know all that: the plaster cast is temporarily alienating me from myself, lack of confidence in my damaged arm and hand etcetera etcetera. Once the cast's removed and I get back in the saddle …'

  'Yes, Kate's arrived. No, not in uniform but looking her usual no-nonsense self. Overfond of dark clothes, in my humble opinion, anyone would think she was clinically depressed…'

  'Seriously? You think she has been in the past?'

  'Of course I'm still here… Well, thank you, Frank. And please thank Mary too, that sounds exceedingly pleasant. Actually it's my thirty-ninth birthday.'

  Frank's chuckle rolled down the line. 'That little whizz of a secretary of yours reminded me. Black tie, Tom. Bring the lovely Kate. We'll be glad to see her.'

  A few minutes later came a knock at the door.

  Tom pushed away the diary and shouted 'Yes!' as his third finger hit the volume button.

  A blast of plaintive baritone hit Kate as she carried in her patient's lunch on a tray. She recognised the music immediately: Wagner.