The Doctor's Rescue

‘Mallory, I have every faith in you. You just need to get your confidence back. But if it makes you happier, of course I’ll sit in,’ he said.

The weekend went incredibly quickly. Will was a good host, with charming manners, though Mallory noticed that he rarely smiled, and never properly—not like in that photograph. And it wasn’t just post-accident pain, she was sure. Every so often he’d simply clam up. He’d get this intense, brooding look that told her very clearly to back off, so she didn’t push it. Though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what she might have said to upset him. Or why he didn’t smile.

At least he’d meant it about not expecting her to be domesticated. He’d even suggested that they should work their way through every take-away in the high street, one by one—and, even better, put the washing-up straight in the dishwasher. The cottage might be small and spartan in most respects, but Will had the mod cons that really mattered. Not to mention the fact that he lived near a superb pizzeria.

She spent Sunday on Scafell—after making Will promise he’d ring on her mobile phone if he needed anything—and walked her demons off. And before she knew it, it was half past eight on Monday morning. Will was in the consulting room beside her, propped in a chair with his crutches close to hand. He’d just had time to show her where he kept everything, and it was time to face her first patient.

Her first patient since Lindy had been hospitalised…

‘This is Craig Clarke and his mother Rita,’ Will said. ‘Rita, Craig, this is Dr Mallory Ryman—she’s standing in for me for a while.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Rita said. ‘First on the scene when Dr Will rescued Kelly, weren’t you?’

‘Something like that.’ Mallory smiled back at her. No doubt the Darrowthwaite grapevine knew that she was Will’s house guest, too. There had been half a dozen visitors over the weekend, all bearing fruit or home-made cakes or chocolates for their ‘Dr Will’. And the amount of get-well-soon cards and pictures waiting for him at the surgery, drawn by his younger patients, had to be seen to be believed. Will was clearly popular with his patients. ‘So what’s up with you, Craig?’

The small boy sniffed. ‘Mum says she’s sick of me having a cold. She says you’ll give me some antibiotics,’ he finished, ‘to make me better.’

‘If it’s a just cold, antibiotics won’t work, I’m afraid,’ Mallory said gently. ‘How long has Craig had a runny nose, Mrs Clarke?’

‘Off and on, as long as I can remember. It’s like a constant cold. Sniffles, a cough…’

‘Any wheezing?’ Mallory asked.

Rita shook her head.

‘Is it worse at any particular time?’

‘Weekends,’ Rita said. ‘And at night—he coughs something chronic at night.’

It was beginning to sound more like some kind of allergic illness, Mallory thought. Possibly asthma. ‘What do you normally do at the weekends, Craig?’

He shrugged. ‘Help Dad with the sheep, play in the barn.’

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