A Perfect Hero

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘Out, Clare, you don’t want to see this.’

  ‘I can’t leave him,’ she whispered.

  ‘Have it your own way,’ Peter said with a sigh, and turned back to Ross.

  ‘OK, he’s yours.’

  Dry-eyed, Clare watched as they stripped away his trouser leg to reveal the damage. Ross swore quietly, then his voice assumed a cold professional tone, as if he was delivering a lecture.

  ‘Extensive de-gloving, nerve and major vessel damage, severe comminution of the tib and fib. We wouldn’t save it anyway. OK, everyone. Let’s just get him out fast and back to Theatre. Mayhew can tidy him up.’

  He picked up a scalpel and neatly stripped the soft tissues away from the bone, then he reached for the saw. Clare turned and fled.

  It was three hours before he came down from Recovery. Mary O’Brien was still on, and after one look at Clare she sent her home to shower and change.

  The cottage seemed appallingly empty without him. She fed O’Malley, and went up to the bathroom to shower. Wrapped in her towel, she wandered into the bedroom and stumbled over Michael’s shoes.

  It was only then that it really hit her, and with a little cry she collapsed on the bed, huge dry sobs tearing at her throat. His scent was on the sheets, making him so real she could almost feel his presence. One by one the heavy tears started to fall, becoming a flood that spent finally itself, leaving her exhausted but calm.

  She dressed in uniform, knowing that they would be rushed off their feet and that every hand would be needed. Michael, for one, would need specialling for the first twenty-four hours at least, and there would be others.

  She was back on the ward before Michael, and busied herself with settling in the new patients, her nerves at breaking point.

  When he appeared she was shocked at his pallor.

  God knows I shouldn’t be, she thought, I’ve seen this sort of thing often enough, but somehow, when it’s someone you love——

  Tim Mayhew was with him, and he beckoned to her.

  She went with him into the little side-ward opposite the nursing station, and stared numbly at Michael as they transferred his motionless body to the bed.

  ‘How is he?’ she asked through stiff lips.

  ‘He’ll be all right. The damage lower down was appalling, I gather, but I’ve been able to leave him with an excellent stump, thank God. He’ll be up and about in no time.’

  She nodded. ‘Just so long as he’s alive …’

  Tim Mayhew patted her on the arm. ‘It’s a terrible blow, so soon after your engagement. It’ll take a very special person to cope with him, Clare. Don’t take it on if you don’t feel you can stick at it.’

  ‘I love him,’ she said tonelessly. ‘We’ll manage.’

  Mary O’Brien bustled in. ‘You’ll be no use to me anywhere else on the ward, with your mind in here with him, and he’s in no position to object—would you like to special him for me, Clare?’

  They elevated the foot of the bed to encourage the venous return from the stump, and then Mary left her alone with him.

  He kept her busy. Every fifteen minutes she took his temperature, pulse and respiration, and his blood-pressure, and he was linked to a cardiac monitor and a Pethidine pump for continuous pain relief. The last unit of whole blood was running in, and after that there was the saline infusion to set up, and drugs to inject into the giving set.

  When he woke he was very disorientated, unable to remember anything and extremely agitated by the drip. The third time he tried to tear it out she called for help and David Blake, the junior registrar, gave him a sedative. After that things were easier for a while, but as the night wore on and the sedative wore off he began to stir again.

  Clare, anticipating trouble, immediately began to talk to him soothingly. To her surprise his eyes opened and he looked straight at her.

  ‘God, I hurt,’ he whispered. ‘What happened?’

  She was cautious. ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘We were somewhere—a train? Derailment. Old lady dying—oh, God.’

  She watched his face as recollection came. His eyes fluttered closed and he swallowed.

  ‘Did they take my leg off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He swore succinctly. ‘Where?’

  ‘Below the knee. They had no choice, Michael.’

  ‘Who did it?’

  She closed her eyes against the memory. ‘Ross Hamilton. He was marvellous. Then Tim Mayhew took over when they got you back here——’ Her voice cracked.

  Michael reached out his hand and groped for hers. Their fingers linked and clung.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I couldn’t leave her alone. No one should die alone. I’m sorry, Clare.’

  She bit her lips and fought back the tears. After a few minutes his fingers relaxed as he slipped back into sleep, and she checked his TPR and filled in his chart again, then made herself look at the stump dressing to check for signs of bleeding. There was none, and the suction drain had produced only a small quantity of almost clear serum.

  Medically speaking, he was doing very well. Exhausted, Clare rested her cheek against the cool glass of the window pane and sighed. How would they cope? How would he cope?

  He always advocated amputation and rapid rehabilitation after drastic trauma, in preference to more conservative treatment—now he would see what it was like with the boot on the other foot, so to speak, she thought with bitter irony.

  She closed her eyes against the weary tears. God, she was so tired. She heard the door open and close softly, and prised herself away from the window.

  It was Ross Hamilton, still in Theatre greens, his face grey with exhaustion. ‘How is he?’ he asked, his soft Scots burr reassuring in the lonely night.

  ‘Clinically excellent,’ she told him, trying desperately to keep the wobble out of her voice.

  ‘Poor wee lassie,’ he said gently, and, opening his arms, he folded her against his chest.

  ‘I can’t bear it, Ross,’ she sobbed. ‘I hate to see him like this. He’s so strong, so fit—it doesn’t seem right! I just feel I can’t help him.’

  ‘You can, you can help him a great deal, but not like this. Why don’t you go and have a cup of tea and half an hour’s kip? I’ll sit with him for a wee while. Go on.’

  ‘But he might wake up and want me—and his obs need doing——’

  ‘You don’t think I can manage that?’ he said with heavy irony. ‘Go on, lass. Go and lie down. You’re no good to him like that.’

  She made a cup of tea and curled up in the day-room under a blanket, sure she wouldn’t sleep, but she did, for almost two hours, before Judith Price woke her.

  ‘He’s awake and asking for you,’ she said gently.

  ‘Oh—what’s the time? Oh, no! I’m supposed to be specialling him——’

  ‘Don’t worry, my staff nurse has been doing it for the last hour and a half. Mr Hamilton went home—he said to leave you. Don’t worry, love, Michael’s fine. He’s slept well, and he’s quite alert now. Have a little wash and comb your hair, and I’ll tell him you’ll be in in a minute.’

  She looked a fright, of course. She snatched off her cap, finger-combed her hair into some sort of order and scraped it back up on top, pinning it ruthlessly before fixing her cap on top of the chaos. Her face looked pale and worried, and she practised a cheery smile that made her want to weep.

  Hurrying back along the corridor, she could hear the ward beginning to stir as dawn heralded the end of another long and, for many, sleepless night.

  He was lying on his back, his face turned towards the door, and as she went in he reached out his hand towards her.

  ‘I’m sorry, I should have been here when you woke up——’

  ‘It’s OK. My poor darling—has it been a hell of a night?’

  ‘Pretty ghastly, but not a patch on yours. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Wrung out. My leg aches like the very devil, but I suppose it would. I haven’t looked at it yet
.’

  She was silent. That would be the hardest part, in many ways, of course. After that there would be no fooling himself, no pretending it was all a dream.

  ‘Help me up,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said help me up. I want to look.’

  ‘Michael——’

  His glare silenced her. With a helpless shrug she put her arm round him and helped him to raise his shoulders off the bed.

  He didn’t say anything, just stared at his stump for a long time and then nodded.

  ‘I wondered if it was a dream,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I knew it was all too good to be true.’

  He lay back against the pillows, exhausted by the effort, and he seemed to sleep for a while.

  Just before eight Tim Mayhew came to see him again, and Clare left them alone together for a while. Mary O’Brien appeared at eight, and found Clare in the office, sipping coffee and staring out of the window.

  ‘Gracious, child, are you still here? How is the boy?’

  ‘Just as you’d expect—taking it on the chin. Mr Mayhew’s with him now. It’s been a fairly grim night on the ward, by all accounts.’

  Mary nodded. ‘Everyone’s very shocked. They’re all terribly upset about Michael. It seems that the only women staff in the hospital who aren’t in love with him are either married or old enough to be his mother—and not all of them are as immune as they should be! And the men are all very shaken. It would appear that in the short time he’s been here he’s earned a great deal of respect from his colleagues.’

  Clare felt a huge lump in her throat, and swallowed to shift it.

  ‘Ah, love, come on now. Why don’t you go home to bed?’

  His bed? With his scent on the sheets and his shoes lying all around to trip her up? Oh, no.

  She shuddered. ‘I’m fine. He might need me. I had a few hours’ sleep in the night.’

  ‘Less than two,’ said Sister Price, coming in. ‘Mr Mayhew would like to speak to you in Mr Barrington’s room, Staff.’

  Thanks.’ She put down her coffee, slipped her shoes back on and made her way over to the side-ward.

  Tim Mayhew stood up as she went in and gave her a smile. ‘Hello, there. He’s doing well, isn’t he? Did he have a good night?’

  ‘Reasonably good, I think. He was a little restless at about ten and had a sedative, but after that he was fine.’

  ‘Good. Well, the heart monitor is obviously unnecessary, so that can come off, and I think we can cut out the quarter-hourly obs and bring it down to half-hourly, then hourly if he’s stable by this evening. Try him on some fluids—water to start with, then fruit juice, squash, mineral water—see how he tolerates it. If it’s OK, then maybe a light supper?’

  ‘Yuck,’ Michael commented weakly.

  ‘Yuck nothing,’ Clare told him. ‘Shall I get you some Perrier?’

  ‘Yes, there’s tons in the fridge. While you’re there, can you feed O’Malley?’

  ‘Did it last night.’

  ‘Thanks.’ His voice faded to a thread, and his eyes drifted shut. Mr Mayhew beckoned her to the door.

  ‘He’s doing very well. If this continues we’ll get the physiotherapist on him later today and as soon as that drain comes out he can start walking—we’ll get him down to Physio on a pneumatic leg so he doesn’t forget how to walk, and then the people from the Limb Centre can take the cast on Tuesday week—they’re coming in anyway for the electives.’

  She nodded. ‘How’s Alan Beedale?’

  ‘The amputee from the train crash? Pretty grim. He’s in ITU at the moment—probably be up here tomorrow. He’d lost a lot of blood and was very shocked, and he’s got other injuries as well. By all accounts young Barrington was very lucky.’

  ‘You think so?’ Clare said sadly. ‘I can’t help seeing him as he was on Thursday, windsurfig—so graceful, so strong, so free—he’s lost all that, and I don’t know how he’ll take it.’

  ‘Well, windsurfing will be a bit tricky, but I have heard of amputees who’ve done it—need a special leg, of course, but certainly he’ll be able to sail his boat without too much difficulty. I think the problem will be holding him back, not getting him going. Let’s wait and see, eh? There’s a lot of water to go under a great many bridges before we have to worry about that.’

  Deborah Lewis came out of Sister’s office then, and her shocked eyes met Clare’s in a message of silent sympathy.

  ‘How is he?’ she asked.

  Clare shrugged. ‘Doing very well. He’s asleep at the moment.’

  Deborah nodded. ‘I’m specialling him this morning—why don’t you go home and rest while he’s asleep?’

  ‘Why is everybody trying to get me to go home?’ she asked frantically. ‘I don’t want to be at home, I want to be here, where I can see that he’s all right——’

  ‘And he can see that you aren’t,’ Mary O’Brien said firmly, appearing at Clare’s elbow and steering her into her office. ‘You need to go and have a long, hot bath, get your head down for a few hours and come back when you can be of some use to him. Like this you’re no good to anybody. Now, can you drive, or do you want someone to take you?’

  Clare shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m sorry, I know you’re right. I’ll just go and tell him what I’m doing.’

  But he was asleep. She stood looking down at him for several minutes, noting almost absently that his colour had returned, that his breathing was deep and regular, that the pulse in his throat was slow and steady and strong. If she didn’t look at his leg, she could almost believe …

  ‘Goodness, that was a deep sigh, Clare,’ Deborah teased gently. ‘Go on, I’ll take care of your precious man for you. He’ll probably sleep for hours.’

  She made her way to the car, and drove home almost mechanically. O’Malley greeted her ecstatically, winding round her legs and yowling for attention.

  She lifted him up and draped him round her neck, where he lay contentedly while she made herself a drink and took it in the garden. The sun was warm, not yet hot, and she lifted her face to it and tried to banish the horror of the night. O’Malley slithered down into her lap and lay against her chest, his claws kneading her shoulder rhythmically in time to his purring.

  That hurts, O’Malley,’ she complained gently, detaching his claws, and with an offended squawk he jumped off her lap and flowed under the nearest bush, tail twitching.

  She ran a hot bath and fell asleep in it, waking when it was cold to the ringing of the phone. It was her mother.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said brightly. ‘I tried to get you last night but you must have been out. Did you have a lovely time?’

  ‘Oh, God, Mummy,’ she said, her voice breaking, and for several minutes she could say nothing. Her mother let her cry, and then, when she recovered a little, questioned her gently.

  When Clare told her what had happened, there was a shocked silence for a few seconds and then she managed to find her voice. ‘Would you like me to come over?’

  ‘I’m going to the hospital to see him in a minute. You could meet me there. I don’t know if he’ll be up to having visitors—oh, lord, Mum, I’ll have to tell his grandfather and his parents. I don’t think I can cope!’

  ‘Clare, listen to me. Just calm down. Go to the hospital, and we’ll see you there as soon as we can make it. It shouldn’t take more than an hour from Cambridge. Don’t worry about anything else. Just take it one step at a time.’

  They didn’t speak for much longer. There didn’t seem a great deal to say.

  After she put the phone down and got dressed, Clare found various bottles of mineral water, Coke and so on in the fridge, and put them in the car, together with some clean boxer shorts and a couple of loose-fitting short-sleeved shirts. There were no pyjamas that she could see. She also packed his wash-things, his aftershave and a couple of books that he had been meaning to read and not got round to.

  When she arrived back at the hospital, he was awake and sitting pro
pped up slightly in bed, staring at the window. He turned towards her and his eyes lit up.

  ‘Clare—are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she managed to say, but had to look away so he wouldn’t see the misery in her eyes. ‘How are you doing?’ She busied herself with his chart.

  ‘Hey, leave that alone, you’re off duty. What’s in the bag?’

  ‘Wash-things, drinks, some boxer shorts and shirts—don’t you have any pyjamas?’

  He chuckled wearily. ‘What would I do with pyjamas? Come here.’

  He patted the sheet beside him and she perched on the edge of the bed and unpacked the bag, laying the things out on the top of his locker.

  ‘I brought you those books——’

  ‘Clare?’

  ‘Would you like a drink? Let me pour you——’

  ‘Clare! Stop fiddling with those things and look at me.’

  She stopped, winding her hands into the plastic of the carrier bag to stop them trembling.

  His hand came up and turned her face round towards him. ‘That’s better,’ he said softly, searching her face. ‘How about a kiss?’

  ‘Oh, Michael——’

  She turned away, unable to stop the tears.

  ‘Oh, God, please don’t cry. I don’t think I can be brave for both of us, love.’

  ‘I’m sorry …’ She snatched a tissue off the locker and scrubbed furiously at her face.

  ‘Smile for me?’

  She gave him a wobbly smile.

  ‘You know what? I could do with a hug,’ he said, his voice choked, and she laid her head against his chest and wrapped her arms around him, reassured by the steady beat of his heart.

  One step at a time, her mother said.

  Dear God, it was going to be harder, far harder, than she had imagined.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DEBORAH LEWIS had slipped out when Clare arrived, to give them a little privacy, but after a few minutes she came back in.