Second Thoughts

She groaned again, and then, pulling on her dressing-gown, made her way downstairs.

Tim was sitting on the floor by the airing cupboard, his eyes like saucers, and on a pile of once-clean sheets the black and white cat who had adopted Andrew reclined with her four tiny little kittens.

‘Oh, aren’t they adorable?’ she breathed. They were all different colours; ginger, black, tortoiseshell and white, and black and white like her.

‘We mustn’t touch them or she might eat them,’ Tim warned her seriously. ‘Especially as she doesn’t know us very well.’

‘Perhaps we’d better let her have some peace now,’ Andrew suggested. ‘I’ll put the top sheet in a box and put them all back in it in a minute.’

Jennifer straightened up and met his eyes. ‘Six cats?’

He groaned and laughed softly. ‘Don’t.’

She smiled. ‘You’re just an old softie, aren’t you?’

‘That’s me. Why don’t you go and wallow in the bath for a while and Tim and I can make her a box and see if we can get her to eat something?’

In fact, the whole day revolved around the cat. They went out to give her peace, then came back to give her food, then went out again for another walk to give her more peace. Finally, at five, he took them home, complete with washing, homework done, and feeling more spoilt and pampered then she had ever felt in her life. He refused her offer of a cup of tea, saying he wanted to check on William Griffin again, so they said their farewells at her door.

‘We’ve had a wonderful weekend,’ she told him. ‘Thank you.’ And she stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

‘Thank you for having me,’ Tim said spontaneously. ‘I’ve had a lovely time — look after the kittens.’

‘I will,’ Andrew assured him gravely. ‘We must do it again.

‘Next weekend?’ Tim asked hopefully.

‘No, I’m sorry, I have to go away next weekend.’

‘And you’re with your father, Tim,’ Jennifer reminded him.

Andrew said, ‘Someday soon, though. We’ll sort something out, perhaps one day after school. OK?’

Tim nodded enthusiastically. ‘Can I feed the hens again?’

Andrew tousled his hair and hugged him to his side briefly. ‘Of course.’ He looked up at Jennifer. ‘Take care. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

She nodded and watched him go, her heart full of some indefinable emotion that for no very good reason made her want to cry.

On Monday she popped up to the paediatric surgical ward before clinic to see William. He was doing well, still on tiny amounts of fluids only but his drip was down and he looked brighter even than he had on Friday.

She exchanged a few words with Mrs Griffin, who was full of praise for both Andrew and the surgeon, Ross Hamilton.

‘I’m just so relieved — you have no idea how worried ‘I’ve been!’ she confided in Jennifer.

‘Oh, I have,’ Jennifer, told her. ‘I’ve got a son of seven, so I know just what agonies a mother goes through. Still, he’s looking very good now — I’m sure it won’t be long before he’s driving you mad again!’

They exchanged a laughing goodbye, and she headed for the door just as Andrew swung it open. They exchanged slightly stilted greetings, conscious of the milling crowd of nurses and patients all around them.

‘I came up to see William — he’s looking well.’

‘Isn’t he? Ross did a good job. Have you got Peter’s clinic?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, I must go, I don’t want to hold up proceedings. I’ll see you this afternoon.’

He lifted a hand in a wave, and she left him and made her way down to Children’s Outpatients, her day already immeasurably improved for having seen him even so briefly.

He did that to people, though, she realised, because he was always pleased to see them, always had a ready smile and a sympathetic ear.

Even when he was exhausted, which he quite often was, she had never known him lose his temper or get short with anyone. Unlike Nick, who had always been crabby and irritable when he was tired. During his house year she had kept Tim out of his way whenever possible, so that Nick could rest. Now, she wondered if she had done the right thing, because in the end he had accused her of avoiding him, and although she had denied it at the time later she had realised there might have been an element of truth in it. But then, if only Nick had been able to deal with his tiredness in the same way as Andrew, perhaps she wouldn’t have grown to dread his return, and might have been a more willing wife. Who knows? she thought. Perhaps we might still have been together. And the old guilt came seeping back, drowning out her happiness.

It was another busy afternoon clinic, a special care baby unit follow-up with all the attendant crying and screaming and breast-feeding and consequent nappy-changing. While Jennifer ran backwards and forwards undressing and weighing and measuring and trying to orchestrate the timing so that the next patient was ready for Andrew before he needed to see them, he, of course, was in his element.

‘Anybody would think you liked the smelly, leaky little things,’ she teased, and he grinned.

‘At least they aren’t insubordinate! I mentioned a cup of tea hours ago.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ she laughed, and went and found Beattie, repeating his request.

When she took it in he was busy cooing at another baby, and she rolled her eyes and carried on with her weighing.

‘I must get on,’ he told her later as they cleared up after the last patient. ‘I have to go back and feed Mummy-cat and make sure the kittens are all right, and I ought to check in SCBU before I go home.’

Jennifer laughed and shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured, ‘between the babies and the kittens, you’re just a pushover, aren’t you?’

He shrugged her teasing off with a laugh. ‘That’s my life,’ he said smilingly. ‘Some of us are meant to nurture.’

‘And you do it so beautifully. It’s a shame you aren’t married — all that pampering going to waste.’

‘Are you volunteering?’

Her breath caught in her throat, and she stopped and looked up at him.

‘Are you serious?’

He looked faintly surprised. ‘Yes, I believe I am.’

She searched his craggy, lived-in face for an endless moment, then a slow smile curved her lips. She could do far worse than to hand herself over to this gentle man’s attentions for the rest of her life. Warmth, comfort, security — it had a lot going for it, and she was sure in his gentle hands their lovemaking would be filled with tenderness, if not the passion of first love. Lord knows that can wane, she thought wryly. There was no mention of love, but at their age there were more important things, like Tim. And he would be a wonderful father, of that she was certain.

She looked up into his eyes. ‘You’re sure?’

He nodded slowly. ‘Yes — oh, yes, I’m sure.’

‘Then yes, I believe I am volunteering.’

‘Perhaps you’d better think about it.’

She shook her head. ‘No. There’s nothing to think about.’

He opened his arms and she stepped into them and found herself wrapped hard against his massive chest.

‘You won’t regret it, I promise you,’ he told her, his voice gruff with emotion. ‘I’ll do everything in my power to make you both happy.’

‘You already have,’ she told him, and, tipping back her head, she sealed the pact with a kiss.

CHAPTER THREE

TUESDAY was one of those chaotic days when children were sick in the clinic and babies screamed endlessly. Jennifer’s staff nurse, Sarah Bright, was off sick and Peter Travers was coping without an SHO because Maggie Bradshaw, plagued by morning sickness, and given up work three months early and her replacement hadn’t yet materialised.

She hadn’t seen Andrew since the end of yesterday’s clinic as his evening had already been totally committed. Now he was on the wards and she didn’t see him until he popped down at lunchtime and cornered her in the kitchen snatching a cup of coffee.

This place is like Piccadilly. I don’t suppose you can get away?’

She laughed mirthlessly. ‘Are you kidding? This is my first cup of coffee all morning.’

He glanced round and smiled. ‘I suppose I am. Look, I know it’s short notice, but could we make dinner tonight? I could bring a takeaway if you can’t get a babysitter.’

Jennifer shook her head regretfully. ‘No, sorry. Tim has Cubs and it’s impossible to get him organised and fed and into bed at a decent hour. How about tomorrow?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m giving a lecture — oh, damn. Thursday? No, I’m on call again.’

‘The weekend?’ she suggested hopefully. Tim is away with his father…’

Andrew closed his eyes and let out a harsh sigh. ‘I’ve got to go to a conference. Next Monday?’

‘You’re on call again.’

Oh, hell. This is ridiculous.’

She laughed softly. ‘You’ll forget what I look like soon.’

‘No chance,’ he said softly, and his voice held a wealth of warmth and emotion. ‘Marry me soon, Jennifer. Then maybe between midnight and six in the morning we might get time to say hello when we aren’t surrounded by people.’

She chuckled. ‘Do you suppose we can find the time to do the deed?’

‘We’ll make time,’ he growled softly. ‘I must go, you’ve got work to do.’ He leant over and brushed her lips with his, then, turning on his heel, he strode out through the department, exchanging greetings with the secretary on the way past.

She didn’t see him again until the following day, at the paediatric diabetic clinic.

As usual they were rushed off their feet, but at least the load was shared by the dietician.

They had a new patient, a little boy of five who had been admitted in a diabetic coma four weeks previously. He had presented with a history of increased thirst, weight loss and listlessness which his mother had put down to the heat and nerves about returning to school, until the morning she found she couldn’t rouse him. He had been stabilised and was now on insulin and coming back for his first check-up.

‘How are you getting on with Paul’s injections, Mrs Downing?’ Andrew asked his mother.

Oh, not so bad, I suppose. He doesn’t like it very much, but I think we’ve got round it now. If he’s a good boy, I give him a sweetie, don’t I, darling?’

Paul nodded.

‘Um — what sort of sweet, Mrs Downing?’ Andrew asked her.

‘Well, that depends what’s around,’ she said innocently. ‘This morning it was a few squares of chocolate.’

‘Ordinary chocolate?’

‘Yes — well, we tried the diabetic chocolate but it gave him terrible diarrhoea.’

Andrew sighed. ‘Mrs Downing, your son really mustn’t have sweets, they’re very bad for him. In order to keep him stable, he has to have sensible, high-fibre foods that will deliver the calories he needs gradually over a period of a few hours, not a sudden shock of sugar then nothing.’

‘Oh, but I still give him the other food as well,’ she assured him.

‘And how’s his blood-sugar level been?’

For the first time she looked vaguely uncomfortable. ‘Oh, well, I suppose it’s been all right.’

‘Do you test it before every injection?’

She shifted awkwardly. ‘No, not every injection. Well, he hates it so when I prick his little finger, but surely I can tell just by looking at him? I mean, he hasn’t gone funny or anything…’ She trailed off and flushed. ‘Well, you try doing it when he’s screaming blue murder and won’t co-operate!’

Jennifer could see Andrew’s frustration as he turned to her. ‘Sister, would you, please? We’ll need bloods anyway for HbA1.’

‘Of course. Paul, could you roll up your sleeve for me, darling, so I can put this strap on? That’s lovely. Right, you hold this little bottle for me and see if you can turn it round and round while I just have a look at your arm here. Oh, that’s lovely! You’ve got very clever veins, haven’t you? What a good boy. Just a little tickle and it’ll soon be over — well done. Keep the bottle turning — that’s lovely. Good lad. All right, now,’ she released the strap, laid a swab over the puncture and withdrew the needle. ‘Could you hold that on there for me, nice and tight? Well done. There’s a good boy.’ She gave him a bright smile, ruffled his hair and winked.

While she waited for the result from the blood analyser, she bottled and labelled the blood for the lab, and disposed of the used syringe in the sharps bin, then put a plaster on Paul’s arm.

‘Well?’

She turned to Andrew and shook her head. ‘Sky high. The urine was, too.’

She told him the result and he frowned. ‘Mrs Downing, if you can’t manage the finger prick each time, you must test his urine. It’s not as accurate, of course, but it’s better than nothing, and if you find it’s high, then you must test his blood as well. Do you understand? Especially in the early stages until he’s stable. If you can’t manage that, I’m afraid we’ll have to have him in and do it for you here, and we don’t want to do that, but you really must understand that high blood sugar can lead to all sorts of problems for Paul later in life, like heart disease, kidney problems, eye trouble — sometimes we just have to be cruel to be kind, and the last thing you must do is bribe him with sweets.’

‘Well, what would you suggest?’ she asked defensively.

‘You could perhaps offer him a treat — a day out at the weekend if he’s been good about his diet and treatment, taking him to the cinema or the zoo, buying him something he particularly wants, but don’t let him hold you to ransom. It’s a part of his life from now on, and if you’re firm he’ll very quickly grow used to it and accept it. If he feels he can wind you round his little finger, he’ll do it. They’re great psychologists.’

He jotted down something in the notes, and handed them to Jennifer. ‘Could you take Mrs Downing and Paul through to the dietician please, Sister? And I’ll see you again in two weeks, Mrs Downing, to see how you’re getting on.’

‘Thank you, Dr Barrett,’ she replied, somewhat stiffly. She was obviously chastened and didn’t like the feel of it.

Jennifer schooled her expression, and held out her hand to Paul. ‘Come on then, Paul,’ she said with a smile, and he put down the aeroplane he was playing with and slipped his hand into hers. ‘Let’s go and talk about what you can have to eat, shall we?’

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