And Daughter Makes Three

She turned back to the foot and studied it again. The soft tissue injuries were nasty, infection was likely and the toes were looking discoloured. ‘I’m inclined to think he’ll want this one next. Is the consent form signed?’

‘Yes—his wife’s here. Do you want to talk to her?’

She shook her head. ‘Not until I’ve spoken to Mr Ryder. I think I’ll ring him and ask him to come down.’

She contacted him on the phone, explained the situation and then had to defend her suggestion that he go in next.

‘The soft tissues look awful. I think the circulation could be compromised,’ she told him.

‘The other man’s soft tissues look awful.’

‘Is the circulation affected?’

She heard him sigh. ‘Apparently not. So you want me to come down?’

‘I think you should.’

The phone clicked and she replaced it thoughtfully. Was he cross with her? Perhaps she should have just tacked the man on the end of the list, but she wasn’t even officially working and the last thing she wanted to do was blow her chances at this job by fouling up in the first few hours!

She needn’t have worried. He came down, took one look at the foot and nodded.

‘Let’s do him next,’ he agreed, and Frankie’s fragile ego heaved an enormous sigh of relief. The relief quickly turned to horror, however, when he told her that if she liked jigsaws so much she could do this one.

‘Me?’ she squeaked.

He rolled his eyes above the mask. ‘Sure, you. Why not? Don’t worry, I’ll tell you blow by blow what I want you to do.’

And so she did her first orthopaedic jigsaw, carefully reinstating the circulation by reconnecting the damaged blood vessels as well as possible. When the foot turned pink again she could have wept with delight.

Ryder, however, kept her feet firmly on the ground and her optimism in the dirt—literally.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘now you can set about picking all those bits of tarmac out of the bone-ends and cleaning up the field before closing the skin.’

It took ages, with both of them working although the area was quite small, and finally it was cleaned up to his satisfaction.

‘Right, we need to screw back that small chip of bone with its ligament attached and we’re done,’ he told her. ‘We won’t close it because of the danger of infection. It was a very dirty wound.’

It was indeed, and once the healing was under way it would need skin grafts to cover the area. In the meantime it would be covered with a non-adherent dressing.

Finally he declared the operation finished, and Frankie sagged against the wall outside and looked at the clock in disbelief. It had taken nearly two hours, but she was very pleased with herself—until her boss pointed out that it could and should have been done in half the time.

‘Still,’ he added with a slight smile that softened his weary eyes, ‘you did a good job. Well done.’

High praise. She could have hugged him, but thought better of it and concentrated instead on pouring them another cup of coffee and this time drinking hers quickly before the phone could ring again.

They were lucky. His bleeper didn’t squawk until later, when they were back on the ward following up the post-ops, all of whom were doing well.

Mary O’Brien, the ward sister, handed him the phone and he spoke to the switchboard briefly before being connected.

Frankie wasn’t really listening, but it was impossible not to hear what he was saying, and anyway she was fascinated.

‘What do you mean you’re at the station? Jane, you can’t do this to me! I’m at work—yes, I know it’s a bank holiday. It just means that we’re even busier—no, I didn’t get the day off; my senior registrar did. He worked Christmas, remember?

‘You’ll have to get a taxi to the house—what do you mean you haven’t got any money? Get a taxi here, then. What about your train fare? Oh, Jane, for heaven’s sake!’

He looked at Frankie doubtfully. ‘Can you hold the fort? Just for half an hour? My daughter’s got herself in a mess.’

‘Of course,’ Frankie assured him, far from confident. She didn’t know the hospital, she didn’t know all she felt she should about orthopaedics, even though she’d spent the past month reading solidly on the subject, and she felt totally at sea. In, as they said, at the deep end.

‘Mary, look after her for me,’ he said to the kindly ward sister, and then, with a wry smile and a weary shake of his head, he strode quickly off the ward and away to his errant daughter.

At least, Frankie assumed she was errant. It certainly sounded as if she was, at least a little.

‘Can’t his wife drive?’ she found herself asking.

Mary O’Brien snorted. ‘Oh, yes—but she’s in London and it’s her the child’s run away from yet again. They’re divorced—have been for years.’

Frankie blinked, part of her mind registering with interest the fact that his wife no longer lived with him. Then her mind belatedly latched onto the information about the child. ‘Run away?’ she queried.

‘I expect so. I should think there was a wild party last night and she hates it. Nice kid. I expect you’ll meet her in a while; he often has to bring her in when she does something like this, poor little scrap.’

Poor little scrap? ‘How old is she?’ Frankie ventured, suddenly concerned for a little girl torn in the war between irresponsible adults.

‘Oh, thirteen or so. Twelve, perhaps?’

So, not a little girl at all but quite a big girl—which meant either that Robert Ryder was wearing better than he had any right to or that he had started a family somewhat younger than was prudent.

Remembering the warmth of his body and the intoxicating scent of his skin as they’d stood side by side for hours in the theatre, she thought the latter most likely.

As sure as eggs is eggs, she thought, he wasn’t any less attractive in his early twenties. It would have taken a very level-headed girl to turn him away if he had switched on the charm. Heavens, even when scowling the man is absurdly attractive!

The door opened and a staff nurse popped her head round the door. ‘Mrs Jenkins is in pain—any chance of a boost to her painkillers?’

Mary O’Brien turned to Frankie. ‘Would you?’

‘Of course.’ She stood up and followed the staff nurse out, and was joined a moment later by Mary O’Brien with the keys to the drugs trolley.

‘What would Mr Ryder normally give her?’ Frankie asked the ward sister.

‘Oh, just some stronger tablets—a paracetamol and codeine combination, usually. What did she have yesterday?’ They checked the drug chart and then Frankie filled it in and Mary dished out the pills and gave them to the patient.

‘Soon have you feeling more the thing,’ she said kindly, plumping up the pillows and settling the patient more comfortably against them. She had had osteoarthritis for years and had been given her second hip replacement three days before, Mary told her. She had refused any opiates and so it was proving difficult to get her pain under control, but she was being very brave about it and the situation was gradually improving.

‘She gets tired by the end of the day, though, and in the middle of the night she suffers from it. If we could give her pethidine it would be better, but it makes her terribly sick and she says she’d rather be in pain than be sick.’

‘Can’t the anaesthetist do something to make her pain-free without nausea?’

Mary smiled. ‘I’m sure, but she won’t let him try. She’s got a bee in her bonnet since she had the other hip done ten years ago, and she can’t believe things have moved on that far. She’s convinced she’s better off like this, and so the poor old dear will just have to suffer for it. It won’t be for long. She says bad as it is it’s better than her old hip was, so all in all she’s quite happy most of the day!’

They went back into the ward office, Mary to do some paperwork, Frankie to scan the notes and try and bone up, so to speak, on some of the cases.

They were sitting quietly working when the door burst open and a tall, slender girl with long, straggly fair hair flounced into the room.

‘I suppose I’ve got to sit here and wait till you’ve finished—I said I’d be all right at the house!’ she grumbled.

Her father followed her, his scowl firmly in place, lines of strain etched round his mouth and eyes.

‘Jane, for God’s sake, just for once in your life do as you’re told, could you? Unlike your mother I have a job to do and responsibilities—’

‘Yeah, like me.’

He sighed and stabbed his hands through his hair. ‘Yes, like you, and the countless patients out there waiting for a little piece of me, and all the others for whom fate has a little treat in store tonight—I’m afraid, like it or not, you’ll have to share me, and for now that means sitting there while I ring Mrs Bailey and see if she can come and look after you this evening—’

‘I hate Mrs Bailey!’ the girl wailed. ‘I don’t need a babysitter—I’m thirteen, for heaven’s sake! You always baby me—’

‘Well, you should have thought of that before you got on the train, shouldn’t you?’ he said irritably as he punched numbers into the hapless phone.

‘Why is it always my fault?’ she said unhappily, and Frankie, watching out of the corner of her eye, noticed a gleam of moisture on her lashes. Her father, drumming his fingers on the desk, either didn’t see or wasn’t impressed. His mouth tightened into an even grimmer, tighter line than before.

‘You tell me— Ah, yes, Mrs Bailey. It’s Robert Ryder—I wonder if you could do me a favour and keep an eye on Jane for me? No, it was quite unexpected—yes, I know it’s a bank holiday— Oh, I’m sorry.’ He sighed and ran his hand wearily over his face. ‘Forget it. I’m sorry to disturb you. Have a good evening with the family. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

He cradled the phone in his hand and turned back to Jane.

‘She’s got her family for the day. Look, I’ve just got one or two people I’d like to see, then if Frankie wouldn’t mind I could take you home and sort things out.’

He turned to Frankie, a weary entreaty in his eyes. ‘Will that be all right?’

She smiled faintly. ‘I did say I wouldn’t let you down,’ she reminded him. ‘If you take your bleeper so I can get you in a real emergency I’m sure I can cope.’

He smiled, a tired, grateful smile that didn’t quite reach those weary eyes, and left the room.

‘So, young lady,’ Mary said quietly, ‘what’s it all about this time?’

‘Oh, Mum’s latest boyfriend—he and his chums were all sitting about the place doing drugs. It makes me feel sick to see them all giggling and talking rubbish. It’s just such a waste of time.’

She rolled her eyes, and Frankie quickly stifled a smile. It was no laughing matter, but the girl seemed at least to have the issue of drug-taking in perspective.

Frankie supposed Jane’s father should be grateful for small mercies …

CHAPTER TWO

THE rest of that afternoon and evening was relatively quiet. The A and E staff called Frankie once about an elderly lady who had had a fall and broken her hip, and it was decided to admit her for surgery the following day.

After that there seemed to be nothing to do, so armed with her bleeper Frankie made her way back to the doctors’ residence and to the room that for now, at least, was home.

She hadn’t unpacked property the night before, so now she opened her suitcases and put the things away in the drawers, hung up her few dresses and put the cases under the bed. Her books she set out on the shelf above the scarred and battered table, and she was done.

Standing back, she surveyed the room critically and sighed. There wasn’t much to show for twenty-eight years, she thought with a touch of melancholy, and then banished it ruthlessly. Pictures were what she needed, she decided—pictures and perhaps some flowers to brighten up the dismal little cell. Maybe a pot plant.

She went and made herself a cup of tea in the communal kitchen, added a kettle to the list of necessities and curled up against her pillows with a book.

She couldn’t concentrate. All she could see was her new boss’s weary eyes, and osteomyelitis simply couldn’t handle the competition.

She put the book down.

So, he was divorced—and living alone, if he’d had to ring someone to look after his daughter. What a waste, she thought, and then chastised herself for making assumptions. Maybe he liked being alone?

And pigs flew. Nobody liked being alone. Sometimes it was better than an existing bad relationship, but given the choice she imagined most people would choose a good relationship over none at all.

Given the choice. Sometimes, of course, one wasn’t given the choice. She wouldn’t be alone by choice, but fate had played dirty tricks on her and she had ended up alone, in this dismal little room—

She snorted in disgust. The room was temporary, just until she had convinced Mr Ryder that it would be a good idea to take her on permanently. Then she’d get herself a nice little flat and start acquiring some little bits and pieces.

If Mr Ryder took her on.

She shook her head. ‘Mr Ryder’ was so formal. She wondered if he would expect her to call him that, or if ‘sir’ would do …!

Robert.

She tried the name, and decided it suited him. Solid, dependable, utterly trustworthy. No frills or flounces, just a good, honest name that could have been made for him.

She wondered if he resented the responsibilities that had been thrust on him, and decided that even if he did he would never admit it, not even to himself.

Her brother had resented the responsibility of his younger sister. He loved her, but providing her with a home for the past ten years had taken its toll of their relationship. And now his wife was on the scene …

With a sigh she picked up her book again and tried to read, but her eyelids were drooping. She took off her skirt, slipped under the quilt and settled down for a rest. She wouldn’t sleep for long. Inevitably her bleeper would squawk and she would have to get up again.

Her breathing slowed, her body quickly adapting to rest. After years of practice it had learned to snatch sleep when it was offered, and cat-napping was a gift she treasured. Within seconds, she was asleep.

Robeert knuckled the sleep from his eyes with one hand, the other clutching the receiver as he struggled to cast aside the dream. ‘Have you called Dr Bradley?’ Hell, even saying her name made it worse—

‘Yes, she’s with the patient now. She asked if I could contact you and get you to come in. I’m sorry.’

Robert sighed. ‘I’ll be right over,’ he promised, and throwing the bedclothes off he pulled on his clothes and went into his daughter’s room.

‘Are you going out?’ she mumbled.

‘Yes—sorry. Will you be all right?’

‘Mmm.’

He dropped a kiss on her cheek, ran downstairs and picked up his jacket and keys on the way out of the door. As he drove the short distance to the hospital, he ran the case through his mind again.

It was the man with the damaged lower leg, the one with the old unhealed fracture who had been hit sideways by a car the night before. They had operated just before lunch and put a fixator on the tibia to support the fractures externally, but the leg had swollen and was now apparently showing symptoms of compartment syndrome, where the sheath surrounding each of the muscles refused to allow sufficient swelling and so caused severe constriction to the muscles and underlying tissues, with resulting serious consequences if they were not rapidly decompressed.

He would require a minor operation called a fasciotomy, literally a slit cut in each of the muscle sheaths to allow for the swelling—assuming that Frankie had got it right.

Dr Bradley. He must remember to call her that. The temptation to call her Frankie was mixed up with all sorts of other forbidden temptations that he didn’t even dare consider except in his dreams—and they, he thought disgustedly, should be censored.

He turned into the hospital car park, pulled up in his usual space and headed for the ward. She was there, in the office with the night sister, her head thrown back and a delicious, deep chuckle bubbling up from her throat.

She turned to him with a smile and said, ‘Hi,’ in her warm honey voice, and his pulse rate soared as the dream came screaming back full force. Damn.

He ignored his body, tugged on his white coat from behind the door and rammed his hands deep into the pockets.

‘So, what’s the situation?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Mr Lee’s leg. It’s started to swell more, and he’s now got a tense calf with loss of extension and diminished sensation in the foot.’

‘Damn. What have you done?’

‘Elevated it, ice-packed the muscles and alerted Theatre. He’s had a premed and he’s ready when you are.’

‘You’re confident of the diagnosis?’

One eyebrow arched delicately, and she stood up and gestured to the door. ‘He’s your patient—I’d be delighted for you to check.’

He grunted and followed her to the patient’s bedside. Mr Lee was lying with his leg raised in a ‘gutter’, packed round with soft wadding to support it off the calf, and Robert could see the tension on the skin. The patient was restless, clearly in pain and the foot was looking discoloured. The calf was certainly swollen all round, and there was no question about the diagnosis.

He swore, softly and comprehensively, and then met Frankie’s eyes.

‘Well done, Dr Bradley,’ he murmured. ‘Ever done a fasciotomy?’

She shook her head, the soft, fine hair swinging round her face. ‘Not yet,’ she said, and the faintest smile touched her eyes.

It was the middle of the night, he was exhausted, and yet still she made him want to smile back. He felt his eyes crinkle. ‘Well, as the saying goes, there’s no time like the present. You didn’t really want to go back to that cold, lumpy bed, did you?’

This time she really smiled. ‘Actually I was getting used to it,’ she said ruefully.

‘Tough,’ he growled, but he was unable to stop the quirk of his lips, and she smiled again.

‘Come on, then, let’s go and do this fasciotomy.’

She was a willing pupil, he had to admit. What his grandfather would have called ‘a quick study’. She did only what she was told to do, exactly as she was told to do it, and with skill and sensitivity, as if the scalpel were simply an extension of her fingers. Immediately she released the affected compartments the muscle bulged through the space, colour and warmth returned to the foot and the situation improved.

‘Excellent,’ he murmured. ‘Right, he can go back down as soon as he’s recovered from the anaesthetic. I’ll be in the hospital for a while—I want to see him after he’s come round and make sure we’ve done enough.’

He stripped off his gloves and gown, dropped them in the bin and turned to Frankie. ‘You did a really good job. Well done.’

Wonders would never cease. The man who hadn’t wanted to give her the job dishing out such high praise? Frankie was faintly dumbstruck. She peeled off her gloves and gown, dropped them in the bin on top of his and marvelled at her beginner’s luck.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘It wasn’t really difficult.’

‘No, but it’s still possible to make a mess of it.’

She forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘I said I wouldn’t let you down.’

He smiled, a slow, lazy smile that made her heart thump a little harder. ‘So you did. Coffee?’

‘Tea?’

‘Whatever. Shall we go to the canteen? They usually have various things to eat and I’m starving.’

‘I’ve got a fruit cake,’ she said rashly.

‘Home-made?’

She should have denied it, but his eyes were so hopeful, as if it had been years—possibly forever—since anyone had made him a cake.

‘Yes, home-made,’ she said gently. ‘It was my Christmas cake, but it never got iced. There didn’t seem to be a lot of point—I was on duty so much coming up to Christmas that I didn’t have time to ice it, and I was too busy over Christmas to eat it, so it didn’t really matter. It was a bit ambitious bothering to make it anyway, I suppose.’

He eyed her curiously. ‘Didn’t you go home for Christmas?’

She thought of Jeff and his new bride, wrapped up in each other to the exclusion of everyone and everything else. She certainly hadn’t been wanted.

Her smile probably didn’t reach her eyes, but she tried. ‘I don’t have a family home any more.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He sounded contrite, as if he regretted hurting her, and suddenly she wanted to comfort him, to explain that it was all right, it didn’t matter any more, it couldn’t hurt her now.

It was too soon, though. She didn’t know him. Maybe later, after a few weeks or months—if she was still here …

‘So, do you want to risk it?’

His eyes searched her face and he grinned fleetingly. ‘What do you think?’

She laughed. ‘Come on, then, or we’ll be having it for breakfast.’

They walked in silence through the hospital corridors to her room, and she opened the door with a flourish. ‘Voilà! Welcome to my humble abode.’

He went through the door and peered around. ‘God, it is, isn’t it? I’d forgotten what hospital rooms are like.’

She laughed and closed the door quietly. ‘Aren’t you the lucky one? Make yourself at home; I’ll get the drinks. Tea or coffee?’

‘Oh—coffee, please.’ He was thumbing through the textbook she had been unable to concentrate on, and she slipped past him, made the drinks and returned to find him sitting on the end of the bed, one leg hitched up and the book lying open on his lap, asleep.

‘I found it riveting too.’

He opened one eye and peered at her, then a slow smile tilted his mouth. ‘Sorry. It’s been a rather hectic weekend.’ He snapped the book shut and sat up, taking the coffee from her. ‘So, where’s this fabled cake?’

She rummaged under the bed and came out with a cake tin, worried now that it would taste awful and disappoint him.

‘I hope you’re not expecting Fortnum & Mason’s standard,’ she joked, stabbing a knife into the centre of the untouched cake and chopping out a wedge.

He winced. ‘I’m glad I’ve already seen you operate, otherwise that would really have worried me!’

She chuckled and handed him the crumbling slice. ‘Sorry there aren’t any plates—here, have the lid.’

He took the lid and sniffed the cake. ‘It smells wonderful.’

‘Brandy. Go on, then, try it.’

‘What about you?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘I want to see if you die first.’ He grinned and took a bite, then shut his eyes and groaned, keeling slowly over onto the bed.

‘Ha ha.’

He opened one eye and mumbled something totally unintelligible, swallowed and tried again. ‘I said it’s worth dying for.’

Quite unexpectedly she felt her cheeks heat. It was one thing to be complimented for her work, and quite another when his remarks were personal—and somehow the fact that she had made the cake and he was impressed was very personal, almost intimate.

She was disgusted at how pleased she was, and yet she couldn’t hold down the happiness. It was absurd that it should matter so much, she thought, and hacked off another wedge for herself.

He was right, though—it was good, even if she said so herself. She finished her chunk, licked her fingers and looked up to find him watching her, a strange expression on his face.

Her breath lodged in her throat and she coughed slightly, looking away from those piercing blue-grey eyes. ‘More?’ she said, and her voice wavered, to her disgust.

‘Um—no, thanks. I thought I’d just go back to the ward and check on Mr Lee, then I ought to go back to Jane.’

He stood up, suddenly big in the tiny room, and she put down her cup and stood too. ‘Thanks for coming in.’

He laughed without humour. ‘I should be thanking you for covering for me so I could sort Jane out, not the other way round. Oh, well, I’ll see you in the morning. Thanks for the coffee and the cake—you can save me a slice for another time.’