Just What the Doctor Ordered

‘Ye-eah! Can I have a big bit?’

The letter came a week later, when Cathy had all but given up hope. She was scanning a professional journal for the vacancies when the postman came, and she stuffed the letter in her bag, sure it was a polite but firm rejection.

She opened it during a snatched coffee-break midway through her morning surgery, and almost shrieked aloud.

So Max Armstrong had been right—John Glover had overruled him, and offered her the job. The thing was, knowing who she would be working with, did she still want it?

Yes, her heart told her. It was a fresh start, away from all the memories of Michael and the heartache of his illness and subsequent death, away from the dirt and oppression of the inner city, away from the muggings and the rapes and the stabbings—but away, too, from Joan, who had been such a tremendous support through the difficult years, and away also from all her friends.

Even so, it was the right thing for them, and she rang John Glover before she could change her mind and told him she would take the post and would be confirming her decision in writing that day.

‘Excellent,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’re just what this practice needs, my dear, and I’m delighted you’ve decided to join us. If there’s anything we can do to help with the move, give us a yell.’

‘In fact there is,’ she told him. ‘I’ll need somewhere to live—you don’t have any ideas, do you?’

‘Leave it with me,’ he said instantly. ‘I’ll put the word around.’

She thanked him, and then went and told her own senior partner that she would be leaving.

‘Good,’ he said without prevarication. ‘You’re like a plant grown under artificial light—you look as if you need a bit of fresh air and sunshine to brighten up your foliage!’

She smiled. ‘I’ll miss you all.’

‘We’ll miss you, too, Cathy, but it’s the right thing for you—and for Stephen.’

It was just what she needed to hear. In her lunch-break she contacted the headmaster of the little school in Barton-Under-Edge, and he confirmed that he would have a place for Stephen as soon as they moved.

Now all she needed was an au pair. She contacted her cousin in Paris, discovered that she had a friend whose daughter had just left school and was looking for a job in England but didn’t want to work in a town, and that evening she spoke to the young lady in question on the phone.

Delphine’s English was sketchy but adequate, and she sounded charming and very sensible. Immensely reassured, Cathy phoned her mother-in-law and broke the news.

‘Fantastic. I knew you’d get it. Now all you have to do is charm that lovely man with the come-to-bed eyes—’

‘I can’t tell you anything,’ Cathy said with a laugh, but secretly she was worrying about Max’s attitude towards her.

Would his prejudices make him impossible to work with? Oh, well, she thought with a shrug, all she had to do was prove him wrong. That shouldn’t be so difficult.

The one remaining problem was accommodation, and that was solved almost immediately as well.

She had a phone call the following day, from the only estate agent in the town, to say he had a charming little place to rent in Barton-Under-Edge, a three-bedroomed stable flat attached to Barton Manor, the impressive seventeenth-century stone-built house she had noticed on the outskirts of the town.

It sounded delightful, the rent seemed extremely reasonable, and she made arrangements to view it at the weekend.

The agent showed her round as the owner was unavailable, and it was, as she had supposed, absolutely charming. Attached to the side of the house, it was over the original stable block, now converted to a workshop and garage, and was accessed by a lovely old cast-iron staircase up the outside. A magnificent climbing rose was trained against the wall and reached almost to the eaves, and huge trusses of heavily scented apricot blooms cascaded over the doorway, drenching her with their exquisite fragrance.

The view over the rolling hills from the top of the steps was breathtaking, and, if that alone wasn’t enough to convince her, the flat itself, comfortably furnished and homely, was absolutely perfect for their requirements. Her natural prudence made her check all the terms, and, that done to her satisfaction, she agreed to take it and the agent said he would send her a contract to sign.

So it was that, two weeks later and a week before she was due to start her new job, she and Stephen packed up their things, rented a van and uprooted themselves from Bristol. As she closed the front door of their old flat behind her, it was as if she had closed a door on that part of her life. Her emotions ambivalent, but hope predominating, she bolstered herself with the memory of their new home. Surely there, in those wonderful surroundings, things would start to look up.

Joan came with them to help unload, because although there was no furniture there was still a phenomenal number of boxes, and she was glad of the other woman’s company.

They collected the key from the agent and Cathy drove up to the side of the house, parking at the foot of the steps.

‘What a beautiful house!’ Joan breathed, clearly awed.

‘Isn’t it? Come and see the flat. You’ll love it. Stephen, come with us, please.’

‘Oh, Mummy, do I have to? There’s a duck with her babies!’

And there was, waddling across the grass beside the stable block, head held proudly erect, followed by an untidy line of fluffy little ducklings.

Cathy relented. ‘All right, but don’t go anywhere else. I don’t want you wandering off!’

She led Joan up to the flat and they let themselves in, to find the place freshly polished and gleaming, a bowl of the apricot roses set in the middle of the dining table.

‘Oh, Cathy, how delightful!’ Joan exclaimed. ‘Oh, I just know you’ll be happy here!’

She hugged her mother-in-law and friend. ‘I hope so—oh, Joan, I hope so. I’ll find Stephen—I want to show him his bedroom. I’ll have to ask the owner if we can have an area for him to play in. He’ll love that. He’s hated not having a garden in Bristol.’

Her heart singing, she ran lightly down the cast-iron steps—and slap into a solid and very masculine chest.

‘You!’ the man exclaimed, and, with a sinking feeling, Cathy looked up into the astonished blue eyes of Max Armstrong.

CHAPTER TWO

CATHY stepped back, snatched a calming breath and dredged up a smile. ‘Dr Armstrong! What a surprise.’

Goodness, she had forgotten how blue those eyes were. They glittered like sapphires—especially when, like now, they were clearly angry!

‘Is this young man anything to do with you?’

Belatedly Cathy noticed Stephen, lurking uncomfortably behind Max. ‘Yes—I wondered where he’d got to. He was watching the ducks—’

‘Well, you should keep a closer eye on him. I nearly had to fish him out of the pond!’

‘I was just following the baby ducks,’ he mumbled miserably.

‘Oh, Stephen! I told you not to go anywhere. You can’t just do what you want, it isn’t our garden. Wait until I’ve sorted something out, OK?’

He scuffed his toe against the gravel and nodded, evidently subdued. Apparently he had already been given a severe talking-to. She glanced up, and her attention was snagged again by the glittering sapphire chips of Max Armstrong’s eyes.

‘Did you want to see me?’ she asked.

‘I rather thought you must be looking for me.’ He glanced around. ‘You must have parked on the road—or did you walk?’

She laughed. ‘From Bristol? Hardly—I drove the van.’

His eyes were riveted on hers in what seemed to be horror. ‘You’re the new tenant?’

‘Yes—I haven’t met the owner yet, he wasn’t available when I looked round. Why? Do you know him?’

‘You might say that,’ he said drily, and groaned under his breath. ‘I’ll bet it was John.’

Cathy felt she was several conversations behind him. ‘John?’

‘Come on, Dr Harris, stop playing innocent. You know damn well who the owner is—I expect John put you up to it. He probably even told you when I was on call so you could arrange to view it when I’d be out of the way.’

Cathy’s confidence faltered as his words registered in her befuddled brain. ‘You—you’re the owner?’

He sketched a tiny, mocking bow. ‘That’s right—and you, I gather, are my tenant. How dreadfully cosy.’

She was stunned. The place absolutely reeked of wealth. It couldn’t possibly belong to him …

‘I didn’t realise that country practices were quite so financially buoyant,’ she said bluntly.

‘They aren’t,’ he replied, equally bluntly. ‘So now tell me John Glover had nothing to do with this.’

A tell-tale flush crawled up her cheeks, and he nodded. ‘I knew it—interfering old goat. Dammit, he really has gone too far this time.’

‘I didn’t know it was you, or I wouldn’t have taken it,’ she said frankly, ‘but don’t worry; I won’t trouble you. Believe me, Dr Armstrong, I have no more wish to be in your company than you apparently have to be in mine. I can assure you we won’t get in your way again. Stephen, go inside, please, and stay with Granny. Excuse me.’ She waited pointedly until he moved out of her way, then wrenched open the back of the van and hauled out a box.

He got in her way again. ‘Where are you going with that?’ he asked sharply.

‘My flat,’ she snapped back.

“Oh, no, you don’t,’ he told her, his voice like flint.

Surely he didn’t mean to stop her moving in? For a moment her confidence failed, but then she remembered the papers she had signed.

She lifted her chin. ‘I’m afraid I do. I have a contract, legally binding on both of us. Excuse me.’

‘No.’ He took the box from her. ‘It’s heavy; you shouldn’t be lifting this on your own.’

‘Yes, well, unfortunately I don’t have the luxury of a pet gorilla to do the heavy work—and anyway, how the hell do you think it got into the van?’

The strain of the move, the upheaval and uncertainty, and then on top of it all the man’s unfriendliness were suddenly too much for her. She felt the hot sting of tears behind her lids, and turned quickly away before he could see.

She was too slow, however, and a second later his fingers snaked out and caught her chin, turning her back to face him.

‘Tsk-tsk. Not tears—really, you should have outgrown that childish little trick by now, Dr Harris. It really doesn’t work——’

‘Damn you, leave me alone!’ she gritted, and, gripping his wrist, she wrenched his hand away from her face. ‘I really don’t need any more from you in the way of criticism and condemnation. I may not have any control over the fact that I am a mere woman, but I don’t have to stand here and listen to you insulting me without any justification—’

She whirled away, furious with him and with herself for the scalding tears that splashed over and ran down her cheeks. She clamped her fingers over her mouth to trap the sob which threatened to rise and complete her humiliation, and then, quite unexpectedly, his hand came down, warm and firm and reassuring on her shoulder.

‘Catherine, I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘You’re right, I was way out of line and I apologise.’ He gave a rueful chuckle. ‘At the risk of sounding like a chauvinist, why don’t you go and make a cup of tea while I bring this lot up?’

She should have enjoyed her victory, but she was too tired to care. ‘The kettle’s in the van,’ she said wearily.

‘There’s one in the flat—and tea and coffee and milk. Agnes put some in this morning. Go on, you’ve obviously had enough, and I could do with a cup myself. I’m sure you’ll make it better than me.’

‘Patronising oaf,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘Stubborn, mule-headed feminist,’ he shot back. ‘Tell me this, if you hurt your back humping all this lot upstairs, who is it who’ll have to cover your sick leave?’

‘I don’t have a bad back,’ she replied with a return of her old fire, ‘and for your information I haven’t had a day off for myself in five years!’

‘Yet,’ he muttered provocatively.

She was just turning back for another go at him when Joan appeared at the top of the steps.

‘Cathy, have you—? Oh! Company—and help. How wonderful!’

She clattered delicately down the cast-iron stairs and paused just above him, her curiosity barely in check. ‘I’m Joan Harris, Cathy’s mother-in-law.’

Max juggled the box to his left arm and held out his hand. ‘Max Armstrong.’

Joan’s smile broadened into one of real warmth. She came down the last steps and shook his hand firmly. ‘Dr Armstrong—Max. I’ve heard so much about you. How kind of you to come and help. Cathy’s had so much to do, and she was working right up to last night. I don’t think she’s had a wink of sleep, but she never complains. It is good of you to offer to carry the boxes upstairs for her.’

Cathy groaned under her breath. She could almost hear the violins!

Or was it the sound of Max’s smothered laughter?

‘My pleasure, Mrs Harris,’ he said with a smile that was almost civilised.

Joan shot Cathy a keen look. ‘I’ve got an idea—why don’t you go upstairs and tell Max where to put everything, and I’ll try and sort things out logically in the van—oh, and you could make a pot of tea while you’re up there—I could just murder a cup!’ and Cathy, comprehensively outmanoeuvred by a pair of masters, grumbled up the stairs and put the kettle on.

By the time the tea was brewed the van was nearly empty, and the three bedrooms and the little sitting-room were piled high with seemingly endless boxes.

As for Max, he was almost charming, and Joan, despite her advancing years still an excellent judge of what she described as ‘horseflesh’, declared him later to be absolutely perfect.

‘I couldn’t have made him better for you myself,’ she said as Cathy and Stephen left her house the following day. ‘He’s just what the doctor ordered!’

‘In which case, it’s time the little men in white coats came and took the good doctor away,’ Cathy said laughingly, then, with an affectionate hug and kiss, she slid behind the wheel of her little car and set off for Barton-Under-Edge.

They had spent the night with Joan in Bristol having returned the van, and were going to spend the day unpacking before Stephen started school the following day, and Cathy was using her final week’s holiday to settle them in and do a bit of homemaking—the last chance she would have before she started her new job.

Delphine, the au pair, arrived on Tuesday, by which time everything was unpacked and ready.

She was a delightful girl, and Cathy, much to her relief, liked her on sight. So, more importantly, did Stephen, and as he was also settling in well at his new school it was with a light heart and in a thoroughly optimistic frame of mind that Cathy set off for work the following Monday morning.

Considering that they were living on top of each other, Max had maintained a remarkably low profile during the previous week; apart from a visit from Stan the gardener, to tell her that she and Stephen could feel free to use the area of garden beyond the stables, and Agnes the housekeeper popping in to ask if there was anything she could do, they had had no contact with their landlord, and Cathy was beginning to think that renting his flat wouldn’t be so bad as she had first feared.

Working with him, however, would be a totally different kettle of fish, she was certain. Still, she was on firm ground there, and not even he could shake her confidence in her ability as a doctor.

Her first patient, however, was less enthusiastic.

A well-dressed, athletic-looking man in his early thirties, he walked into the room, took one look at her and stopped in his tracks.

‘Oh.’

She glanced down at the notes. ‘Mr Carver? Do come in. I’m Dr Harris. Take a seat.’

He hesitated, and then with a resigned sigh he lowered himself into the chair she had positioned beside the desk, and gave her a wary smile.

‘I wasn’t expecting a woman,’ he offered.

She grinned. That’s equality for you. For years women have expected their doctors to be men. For some reason men find it uncomfortable when the boot’s on the other foot, but don’t worry, the most important thing is that I’m a doctor. Now, what can I do for you?’

He paused for a second, then took a deep breath and met her eyes. He was quite clearly worried. He had been fitted in as an emergency, and her list being the lightest on her first morning, he had been sent to her.

‘What’s wrong, Mr Carver?’ she prompted gently.

He dropped his eyes to his hands. ‘I think I might have testicular cancer.’

So that was it. She set down her pen and leant back in her chair. ‘What makes you think that?’

He let his breath out on a sigh. ‘I saw the nurse a few months ago—she runs a well-person clinic. She gave me a leaflet on self-examination, and I’ve been doing it regularly ever since. My brother thought I was crazy, but it’s so simple—I just do it in the shower while I’m washing. Anyway yesterday I noticed a slight tenderness, and I think I can feel a sort of bump—nothing much, but I thought it would be a good idea to have it checked.’ He twisted his wedding-ring distractedly. ‘I haven’t told my wife. We haven’t got any children yet although just recently we’ve been leaving it to chance, but if I have got—I mean, the treatment—there won’t be any children, will there?’

She smiled. ‘I think you’re jumping the gun here, but let’s assume I find a lump that looks suspicious. The first step then is to refer you to a specialist at the hospital. They’ll examine you and do an ultrasound to make sure that it’s not just a cyst or a hydrocele, and if they’re satisfied that it’s a tumour they’ll remove only the affected testicle. Now, if you’ve been checking yourself regularly as you say, then this will have been caught in the very early stages, and the likelihood of it having spread is very small, but speed is the important thing.’

He didn’t look reassured. ‘And the prognosis?’

The success rate for this type of cancer now is between ninety and ninety-eight per cent, depending on the speed with which it’s picked up and the type of cancer. And it still has to be proved to be cancer. It could be orchitis, or an inflammation of the membrane around the testicle—almost anything. The lump may not even exist except in your fears.’

‘Oh, it exists,’ he said hollowly. ‘I checked yesterday because it started hurting on Friday. I played squash, and I thought I’d strained it or something, but it got worse over the weekend.’

‘I think I should have a look before we go any further. Just slip your things off and lie down on the couch. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

She drew the screens round him and wrote down his symptoms in the notes, then, pulling on a pair of gloves, she went behind the screen and examined him.

Her examination finished, she stripped off her gloves and left him to dress.

He emerged while she was writing up his notes and perched stiffly on the edge of the chair, his hands fisted on his knees, clearly tense.

‘Well?’ he asked after a moment.

She set down the pen. ‘You’ve got a lump, I’ll give you that. It’s very small, but it’s there.’

He looked searchingly at her. ‘And?’ he prompted.

‘I’m going to refer you to a specialist. I’ll phone him, and you should get an appointment within a matter of days. If you don’t, ring me. And don’t worry. If it is cancer, you’ve detected it very early. The operation should be very straightforward.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘After the operation, depending on the type of tumour and the existence of any secondaries, you’ll either be given chemotherapy, which has made great strides, or radiotherapy, or a combination of both. As far as fertility is concerned it will affect the other testicle temporarily. After about two years, however, it will probably have recovered enough for you to father children. However, for insurance against the unlikely event of permanent sterility in the other testicle, you will probably be advised to store semen in a sperm bank.’

‘Before the operation?’

She nodded.

‘But won’t it be affected? I mean, isn’t there a danger it will give the baby cancer?’

She shook her head firmly. ‘No, absolutely not. Hundreds of men have been treated in this way now, and many of them have successfully fathered perfectly normal children both before and after the operation.’

He was still silent, watchful. An intelligent man, he wanted the answers to all the questions. He met her eyes candidly.

‘What if they have to remove both testicles?’ he asked quietly. ‘I mean, it’s castration, isn’t it?’

‘It’s highly unlikely that they’d need to remove both,’ she assured him. ‘Removal of one makes absolutely no difference to your potency, so you needn’t fear that you would lose any of your masculine characteristics. Your voice, body hair and so on will remain completely unaffected. Once you’ve healed after the operation, you life will proceed exactly as before. That’s on the medical side. On the cosmetic side, if you wish they can give you a silicon implant to replace the missing testicle. No one would ever know the difference.’

He nodded and stood up, framing a polite social smile. ‘Thank you, Dr Harris,’ he said calmly. As he turned away, she saw the fear still lurking behind his eyes. Cathy took the bull by the horns.

‘Mr Carver, you still don’t know if you have cancer. If you have, it’s in the very early stages. Your chances are excellent.’

He paused at the door. ‘Will I be treated any quicker if I go privately?’

‘I very much doubt it. I think you’ll find you see someone in a day or two. Why? Have you got private health insurance?’

He shook his head. ‘We haven’t got round to it. I’ve got life insurance, though, although I must say I never thought I’d need it.’

She gave him a wry smile. ‘I think it’s extremely unlikely that you will need it, at least for a good many years.’

He answered with a grim smile of his own. ‘Let’s hope you’re right. And thank you for your help.’

‘You’re welcome.’

He left her, and for the next couple of hours she was swept along by the tide of patients that followed.

It took her longer than usual to deal with them because she had to get used to a new computer system, but finally she reached the bottom of the heap of notes, and with a sigh she went out into the kitchen at the back, from where a delicious smell of coffee was drifting.

Max was sprawled at the table, one foot across the other knee, a cup of coffee propped on his belt buckle.

‘Well, well—you’ve finally finished your surgery.’

She flushed under the implied criticism. ‘I’m sorry I took so long, but the computer doesn’t seem to like me.’

John Glover came in behind her and chuckled. ‘Join the club. It has me for breakfast every day. The only person it seems to like is Max, and he can get it to turn circles on the ceiling. Oh, and Andrea, of course—the practice manager. But then she could charm the birds out of the trees.’

Cathy disagreed, but she had the sense to do so silently. She had met the coldly efficient practice manager that morning, and had taken an instant dislike to her—a dislike that was apparently mutual.

‘So, how did it go?’ Dr Glover asked, settling himself down with a cup of coffee and dunking a chocolate biscuit in it.

She looked away. She couldn’t afford the luxury of biscuits. She had enough trouble with her figure without eating between meals.

‘OK. I had a patient this morning who thinks he’s got testicular cancer, and I have to say I think he’s probably right. He’s the right age—early thirties—and all his symptoms fit.’

‘Did you examine him?’

‘Yes—there’s no doubt, he’s definitely got a little lump.’

‘Who was it?’ Max asked, idly stirring his coffee.

‘Samuel Carver—’

‘Sam? You’re kidding!’ He shot upright, slopping his coffee on the table. ‘I played squash with him on Friday night, and he didn’t say anything then.’