by Mary Hawkins
'Yes, his younger sister,' said Mrs Bensted abruptly. 'Didn't I ever tell you?'
'Probably not,' said her sister calmly. 'Chris was always your white-haired boy.'
Jean hardly heard her. Naomi was not a friend . . . not Chris's lover. She was his sister?
Mrs Bensted was sitting down again, and the colour had drained from her face.
'Oh, Georgie, dear,' she said in a trembling voice, 'please don't mind Naomi too much. We certainly don't believe for a moment what she said. I put Chris right quick smart that first time he ‑'
'Of course not,' Mrs Hansen interrupted hastily, 'and you mustn't upset yourself like this, Maud. You know it's bad for you.' She was looking at her sister with a concerned look on her face. 'Why don't you go and lie down for a while? Perhaps you'd like to go with her, Jean, while I make us all a cup of tea?'
'Of ... of course,' stammered Jean. She too was becoming concerned by the pinched look on her old champion's face.
Mrs Bensted was slightly breathless by the time she was sitting on the side of her bed in her old room. 'I'm so sorry Chris met Mrs Jones and listened to her. He was susceptible to what she said because of a worthless, girl he fell for in his first year at university. She hurt him badly.' She reached up and patted Jean's face gently. 'You must never worry what misinformed people say about you. I've watched you grow up.
You're a beautiful person inside and out. More like your father than you can know.'
Jean tensed.
'Oh, no, not him! I mean your real father.' The old lady smiled gently.
'He . . . George ... he told you?' gasped Jean.
'He didn't have to,' she was told simply. 'I've always known. Your mother told me a long time ago, when she realised she didn't love George any more. She really loved George's brother, you know. Perhaps if she'd been honest with them both from the start, things may have been so very different. She was just a poor mixed-up woman who couldn't handle the pressures she partly brought on herself. Don't judge her too harshly, my dear. Nor your . . . the man you grew up believing was your father. He was badly hurt too, don't forget.' She sighed and lay back on the bed. 'He didn't know you weren't his own child at first. When . . . when he found out, I think the guilt of what he had done to his brother was more than he could stand. He changed. We never really saw him again. But you ... we didn't know until you came to live here how you'd been affected by the whole mess. You'd been so hurt, ready to fight the world when George brought you home.' Her eyes closed. 'I think I will rest for a while now.'
'And you so readily became my very dear defender and friend,' whispered Jean in a choked voice, wishing she had been able all those years ago to break her barrier of teenage resentment and tell this marvellous woman then how much she had needed her care. Lovingly she bent over and kissed the pale, withered cheek, pulled a rug over Mrs Bensted's knees and slipped from the room.
When she entered the kitchen, she didn't see the considering look that Mrs Hansen gave her pale, bemused face as she said, 'I'm sorry Naomi was so rude to you. She's recovering from a very unfortunate relationship with a man she discovered nearly too late was married. Chris has been spending as much time with her as possible. They're very close.' She smiled at Jean very gently. 'Do stay and have some supper with me. I'll take a tray to Maud later.'
Jean didn't want to stay very long in case Naomi returned, but the lonely, cold house next door that had been the only real home she had ever known held little appeal for her tonight. And there had always been a welcome in this much smaller, older house. So she nodded hesitantly, and let herself be seated at the same table where Chris had once fed her an omelette at midnight.
'Apparently Chris hasn't talked very much about his family,' said his mother chattily, as she bustled about. 'Besides Naomi, he has an older brother too. His name is Joshua. When it came to our second boy, I dug my heels in when my husband chose another biblical name, Aaron. We eventually compromised with Christian. But I lost out with Naomi.' She smiled ruefully.
'Oh,' said Jean blankly, 'I always took it for granted his name was Christopher. I like Christian much better.'
She blushed.
His mother grinned, and said drily, 'I'm glad you do. He hates it.'
She continued to chatter on lightly about the family, and especially Chris, until she set steaming cups of tea before them and some dainty cakes they had brought with them.
'And now, Georgie, do tell us about George. Maud's been so concerned for him,' Mrs Hansen said.
Jean took a deep breath, and brought her up to date with all that had happened. Apparently Chris had only told them the very bare details. Then Jean briefly explained why she needed Chris's phone number.
'It's not like Chris not to leave you his phone number,' his mother said thoughtfully. Then her face cleared. 'Of course. He must have thought you had our number as Maud's with us now.'
At Jean's surprised look, she added, 'Since he moved here he gave up his flat, and always stays at home with us. But he's there by himself tonight as his father flew to Brisbane this morning for some special meetings. We decided to take the opportunity to come and collect a few more odds and ends that Maud's decided she just can't do without. But he's out all day,' she said anxiously. 'You'll only get him very early in the morning or very late at night.'
Jean eagerly dialled his number when she reached home later that night. He wasn't home. Disgruntled, she at last went to bed and tried to sleep. No lectures went on this late! He must be out on a date.
Early the next morning, her lack of sleep had her fumbling, and nearly dropping the phone after her mad dash down the corridor while half asleep.
'Jean? Chris here. Sorry to ring so early, but I have to leave for more lectures in the city in a few moments. I've tried to get you a few times . . . Jean? Are you there?'
The last traces of sleep vanished as Jean heard the deep, longed-for tones over the phone. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven o'clock!
'Yes . . . yes, I'm here,' she managed, her hold on the phone tightening. 'Oh, Chris! I'm so glad you rang.'
There was a brief pause. Then his voice sounded husky as he said softly, 'That's a nice—a very nice— thing to know.'
'I ... I mean . . . it's George . . . he ‑'
'Something's wrong? Look, Jean, you must have realised he'd take a while to settle down ‑'
She interrupted the suddenly sharp words with, 'No, no, it's nothing like that. There's something else. He's worse. Can't do things. Oh, Chris, I need you here!' she said desperately.
She heard someone call out to him in the background. His muffled voice said something like, 'Won't be a moment,' and then he was saying hurriedly, 'Look, I've got to go, or I'll miss my lecture. Don't worry, I'm sure Dr Evans will look after ‑'
'But he's not!' Jean said desperately, 'That's part of the problem.'
The voice in the background sounded urgent this time. Jean registered that it was a woman. An unexpected wave of fury swept through her.
'But don't let a ... a friend's need stop you going to your important meetings. So typical of ambitious men like you,' she heard herself saying bitterly, and then slammed down the phone.
She stared at the phone for a long moment, instantly regretting the flash of childish temper. A little voice inside her told her it wasn't just anger that had made the hot words fly.
Jean shivered. It was a dark, cold morning, and she had flown to the phone without stopping to grab a dressing-gown. She stomped to her room and crawled back into the warm cocoon of blankets. But her trembling increased as she realised what she had just done. Her last thought, before sleep had claimed her the night before, had been relief that at least, for George's sake, she knew where to contact Chris. And now she had hung up on him.
And that had been a woman with him just then. And so early in the morning. Only once before had Jean felt like this: when she had first met Naomi. Now she knew this dreadful, sick feeling for what it was. For the first time in her life, Jean experie
nced a wave of sheer jealousy for a man.
Furious with herself, she flung out of bed and headed for the shower, determined to ring him again that evening.
But she had to force herself to swallow a few mouthfuls of breakfast. She wasn't quite sure which she was the most upset about—the fact that she had hung up on him, or the realisation that there was another woman with him.
The hospital visiting hours were limited to the afternoon, so that the patients would not be interrupted with their programmes for retraining. The long hours until then seemed to stretch before her endlessly.
Just before lunchtime, she wandered listlessly out to the garden and was cutting a few of the flowering chrysanthemums to take in to George when she heard the car coming up the driveway.
It was only as she hurried around the side of the house, and saw it was not Chris, that she realised how much she had been hoping all morning that he would come.
'Hello, Jean,' Alicia said nervously as she climbed out of her car, and watched Jean come to a standstill near the steps.
Jean nodded at her silently. There was something different about Alicia. She seemed older and smaller. Then Jean realised it was the first time she had ever seen her wearing a pair of jeans—even though they were designer jeans—and low-heeled shoes, and a minimum of make-up.
'I ... I hope you're not still mad at me,' Alicia said hesitantly as she slowly approached her. 'I just came to see how George is getting on back home.'
'He's not here,' Jean said coldly.
'But they told me at the hospital he'd been discharged. Oh, dear, he's not in hospital again, is he?'
Jean felt her reserve beginning to melt at the genuine distress in Alicia's face.
'No, he's gone into a rehabilitation unit for retraining.' Relief flashed across Alicia's face, and Jean relaxed her guard completely. 'Would you like to come inside and have a cup of tea?'
It wasn't until they were both seated with steaming cups in front of them that Jean asked bluntly, 'Alicia, why did you leave George's room in such a mess?'
Alicia blushed, and then went pale. 'I'm really ashamed about that. I ... I just kept putting it off.' She shuddered. 'It was such an unpleasant, smelly job . . . Anyway, there was always so much else to do when I was staying here,' she said defensively, 'and then Dan had the key and . . . and ... I had so much else to catch up on.' She saw Jean frown, and added rapidly, 'Oh, nothing in the house. It was all the typing . . . from the office.'
'From the office? But doesn't Karen do all that?'
'Dan . . .' Alicia gulped. 'Dan always gave me heaps of stuff to do at home. It was often confidential things.'
As Jean was wondering how illegal the 'confidential things' were, Alicia continued awkwardly, 'Jean, I'm sorry about Dan. I do hope you didn't think I ... I knew what he was trying to do.'
Jean studied her for a moment. 'There's something I'm not quite clear about. Why did Dan go to such measures to try and sell the house?'
'His business is nearly bust. He needed the commission—and the publicity—from a sale that size desperately.' Alicia put both hands around her cup, avoiding Jean's eyes. 'I swear I only thought he would try and talk George into ... I ... I didn't know about the power of attorney.' She paused, and then added softly, 'There was another reason I had to see you, too. I...I...'
She looked up, and Jean saw the misery that filled her eyes.
'I've left Dan, Jean,' Alicia said in a trembling voice.
'I didn't know how ambitious he was to have lots of money, no matter whom he hurt. How . . . how selfish, and greedy, and . . . and cruel he could be until after you came to the office that day. He ... he turned on me and . . . and . . .' Tears slowly began to trickle down her cheeks. 'He hit me,' she said simply. 'I couldn't even go to see George when he was in hospital because of the bruises.'
'Oh, Alicia . . .' Jean began helplessly.
'Don't feel sorry for me,' Alicia said fiercely. She wiped the tears away savagely. 'I've been a real fool. But . . . but I did like you and George ... so much . . . I . . . You've been the first family I've ever had.'
Jean was on her feet and around the table to hold the shaking body to her, as Alicia gave a heart-rending sob. 'Oh, you poor dear. You've been more family to me and George than Dan ever was,' she said soothingly.
A feeling of pity mixed with guilt flooded her. Except for George's intervention, she knew that she too would have missed out on the security of having 'family'.
'Alicia, I'm so sorry,' Jean said shakily. 'But we can still be your family.'
Alicia lifted her head and stared hopefully at her. 'Can I come and see you both?'
'Of course,' Jean said swiftly.
Alicia was flushed when Jean at last released her. She pushed her half-full cup of tea away and awkwardly reached for her bag. 'I . . . I have an appointment with a lawyer . . . Thank you, Jean,' she muttered shakily as she stood up.
Jean went out to the car with her, and they smiled a little mistily at each other as they said goodbye.
Jean watched her drive out of sight, and then entered the house, thankful as never before for so much that she herself had been given.
The phone was ringing as she went back inside. It was David Bentleigh. George was booked for a CT scan early in the afternoon.
It was lonely waiting by herself at the hospital for George to return to his room. The staff were particularly busy that day. A nurse short, a rushed David told Jean, after he had greeted her briefly. So, when George was back resting on his bed, she just sat quietly with him while he dozed off and on.
The staff had warned her that they did not expect the results of the scan until the next day. Even then, that would be sooner than they usually did except for very urgent ones.
But Peggy had just arrived late in the afternoon, and been filled in on what was happening, when Dr Gill strode into the room.
He was looking grim until he saw Peggy with them. Then his expression lightened as he smiled at her.
'Good evening, ladies, Mr Macallister. I wonder if I could have a word, Sister?'
George had been sitting out of bed since just before tea, and was now watching them quietly. He had made hardly any effort to speak to them that day. As Peggy preceded the doctor from the room, he held out his hand to Jean. When she reached out, he grasped it firmly. They waited quietly until Peggy returned in a little while with the doctor. George was watching them too, as Jean observed, with a sinking heart, the serious expression on their faces.
'Dr Gill wasn't sure how you would take his news, and wanted to sound me out first.' She shot a slightly impatient look at the young man who tilted his chin at her. 'Very commendable, worrying about you all. But I told him he doesn't know how much guts you've got.'
She perched herself on the bed and looked at the young doctor.
He glared at her for a moment, and said abruptly, 'I thought you might like her to tell you. As I suspected, and as Dr Hansen asked me to check out ‑'
'Dr Hansen?' asked Jean sharply, 'He's back? He's seen George?'
'No, of course he's not back. Not with the lectures he has scheduled,' said the young man impatiently. 'Although I suspect by the time he rang me he must have been running very late . . .'
Jean had to stifle the beaming smile she felt starting to grow inside her. Chris did care. Even distance had not prevented him ...
The slightly pompous words of Dr Gill intruded. The smile was wiped off her face and she felt foolish as she heard what he was saying.
'And you're very fortunate to have a geriatrician like Dr Hansen. He's so interested in all his patients. Of course he would ring and see how things were going. It gave me a very good chance to—er—that is . . . About the results of the scan.'
The depth of her disappointment made her feel nauseated. Of course. Chris was a good doctor. His patients would always come first. It was for George's sake . . .
She forced herself to concentrate as the young doctor went on.
'There appears to
be at times a build-up of cerebrospinal fluid in the damaged area of the brain causing intra-cranial pressure. That's why your co-ordination varies from day to day, Mr Macallister.'
Jean's hand tightened on George's, never taking her eyes from Dr Gill's face.
The RMO continued rapidly, 'We are in the process of consulting with a neurologist to find out if anything can be done to relieve the CSF pressure. But we probably won't hear anything more for the next twenty-four hours.'
Jean gave a short protest, and he said sharply, 'We're doing all we can, and I can assure you things have moved a lot faster even now than I thought possible.' He stood up slowly, and Jean noticed how young and exhausted he suddenly looked. 'Now I'm sorry, but I've got to grab a bite to eat and then catch up on some paperwork. So I can go off duty some time tonight,' he added grimly.
When he had gone, Peggy jumped up and said grimly, 'He'll make a darn fine doctor one day if the system doesn't wear him out first. They expect these young residents to work too many long hours.' She glared at their downcast faces. 'Well? Why so miserable? The news is a lot better than I expected. Didn't you hear him say a neurologist is going to see you, George? At least there's a good possibility something can be done. Personally, I'm feeling optimistic.'
But after they had said goodnight to George, and were walking out of the unit, Jean asked quietly, 'What if the pressure can't be relieved?'
'We must just pray that it can be,' Peggy answered her equally softly.
There was no phone call from Chris the next morning.
How could she have fallen in love with someone who was so ambitious he couldn't miss a few minutes of his precious lectures even to ring her? As much as she strove to put him out of her mind, his broad shoulders and that rare smile that so transformed his serious face still intruded constantly on her thoughts.
But, whatever she thought of him as a man, she again longed for his expertise as a doctor. Especially after she had a brief interview with Dr Evans, at long last, at the hospital that afternoon.
'Surgery!' she gasped, after listening to the elderly doctor's abrupt words.
