The Country Doctor's Choice E-Book

Maggie Bennett

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 330

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Set in the market town of Everham in Hampshire, from late autumn of 1962 to summer 1963, four interweaving stories overlap as time progresses. Tensions between the characters give rise to open conflicts which erupt in scandals that echo the Profumo affair which has shocked the nation; Everham is like a bubbling cauldron which boils over, resulting in changes in the lives of its residents.

Leseprobe

The Country Doctor’s Choice

MAGGIE BENNETT

To my dear granddaughter Scarlet Anne Margaret Bees

Contents

Title PageDedicationCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVEAbout the AuthorBy Maggie BennettCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

Autumn 1962

Dr Shelagh Hammond looked at her watch: three-fifteen. Councillor Ben Maynard’s funeral was over, and the congregation was streaming out of St Matthew’s church and crossing the road to the church hall where a substantial buffet was laid out on long tables.

‘A good turnout,’ commented Paul Sykes at her side, ‘and quite a few from the hospital – look, there’s that mousey little Sister Oates from Outpatients. What’s she doing here?’

‘Iris Oates sings in the choir at St Matthew’s – and she’s here for the same reason as we are. Ben was chairman of the hospital’s League of Friends, and did a lot for us. I see Mr Fielding who operated on Ben is here.’

‘Too bad it was unsuccessful. So, are we going over to the bunfight, darling?’

‘I’m not, because I want to pop home and see Mother before going back to Maternity. But don’t let that stop you from going, Paul. Actually, I’d better say a word or two to Phyllis Maynard first. Coming?’

‘Righto, but I don’t know the lady. I’ll stand beside you looking suitably grave.’

Outside in the mellow October sunlight, Ben Maynard’s widow was pale but composed, unlike her younger daughter, Marion, who was weeping silently while her husband kept an eye on their little boy and girl; the elder daughter, Jennifer, stood beside her mother, her husband at a discreet distance. As Shelagh opened her mouth to offer sympathy, the organist came forward, kissed Phyllis and offered his condolences.

‘We’ll all miss him, Phyllis, he was a remarkable man. Everham won’t be the same without him. We’re all thinking and praying for you and – Mrs Gifford and Mrs – er—’ He nodded towards the daughters; he knew Jenny Gifford as a teacher at Everham Primary.

‘Thank you, Mr North, and for taking time off to play the organ for us,’ Phyllis responded with automatic politeness. ‘Will you have to go back to school now?’

‘No rush, I’ve left my deputy head in charge.’ He caught sight of Shelagh waiting to speak. ‘Good afternoon, Dr Hammond – I’m sorry for barging in. Ah, I see his reverence Mr Bolt over there, and I need a word with him, so I’ll catch him now.’

He kissed Mrs Maynard again, and moved away.

‘I can only echo what Mr North has just said, Phyllis, and – and so does Dr Sykes,’ she said rather awkwardly, beckoning to Paul who came forward to shake the lady’s hand. She nodded in acknowledgement.

‘I remember seeing you at the hospital, doctor, when my Ben was in Male Surgical.’

‘Yes, I’m Mr Fielding’s registrar, Mrs Maynard.’

‘Thank you for coming this afternoon. I know you all did what you could for him.’

‘There must be many here who want to offer their condolences, Phyllis, so we’ll make room for them,’ said Shelagh, tactfully moving away.

‘Shall I see you at the weekend, darling?’ Paul asked in a low tone.

‘I’m not sure, Paul, I’m rather worried about Mother. I may need to stay with her over the weekend.’

‘Well, do try, because we’ll soon have to close the caravan – it’s getting chillier.’

‘I’ll let you know, Paul. I want to be with you just as much as ever, but – well, it depends. Bye for now.’ She held up her face for his brief kiss – which did not go unnoticed by some eyes in the crowd – and made her way to the car park.

Shelagh and her mother lived in a neat mid-terrace house on Alexandra Road in the older part of Everham. Shelagh had grown up there, leaving to go to London University, from where she had returned, a qualified doctor, and had not left again. At Everham Park Hospital, greatly enlarged since its foundation as a war memorial after the First World War, and now a teaching hospital for nurses and midwives, she had completed six months as a house officer on both the surgical and medical wards, and had by now completed six months as houseman on the obstetrics and gynaecology team, which she enjoyed.

‘Is that yeself, Shelagh?’

‘Hallo, Mother!’ She no longer used the name of Mum or Mummy. ‘I’m on call tonight, so thought I’d pop in to see you. Shall I put the kettle on? No, don’t get up, I’ll do it, and you sit down!’

‘Can ye not stay for half an hour, girl?’

‘’Fraid not. I went to Ben Maynard’s funeral this afternoon, and can’t take any more time off today.’ In fact Shelagh’s real reason for the quick visit was to check on her mother, who had been looking tired and pale lately.

Bridget Hammond crossed herself automatically at the mention of a funeral. She was an Irish immigrant who had come over to Liverpool before the war to train as a nurse, but having given birth to Shelagh, she had never gone back to her family in Donegal. Deserted by Jim Hammond, she had remained a strict Roman Catholic, and had supported herself and her daughter by working as a hospital domestic during the war and later as an auxiliary nurse at Everham Park. Arthritis had forced her to give up work early, and now at fifty she looked older, and treated Shelagh as if she were a schoolgirl instead of a professional woman of twenty-six, refusing to take any medical advice from her, on the grounds that she was in charge of her own health, and when necessary consulted old Dr McGuinness, the semi-retired senior partner of four general practitioners, her only authority on medical matters. He prescribed iron tablets and painkillers, and Bridget said that she needed no other treatment. Shelagh had tried and failed to get her mother to see an orthopaedic surgeon.

‘So did they give Mr Maynard a good send-off, girl?’

‘Yes, St Matthew’s was packed. His wife looked strained, and the two daughters took part in the service, one reading the lesson and the other giving the eulogy.’

‘God help the poor woman,’ Bridget sighed. ‘If it had been at Our Lady of Pity, now, I’d have asked ye to take me.’

Shelagh did not reply. It was an unresolved issue between them, that Shelagh no longer attended church regularly, and would only drive her mother the six miles to the Convent if she happened to be free on a Sunday – and for most of her free weekends during the summer, she had stayed with friends in the caravan at Netheredge on the other side of the Blackwater river. Bridget did not know that there was in fact only one friend, Paul Sykes, to whom Shelagh had been unofficially engaged since the spring. It plagued Shelagh’s conscience from time to time, this telling of a downright lie to her mother, but she considered it the lesser of two evils; if she ever told Bridget the truth, there would be endless trouble, and their relationship perhaps permanently harmed. When she and Paul were free to announce their engagement and name a wedding day, that would be time enough to introduce him to her mother; meanwhile, she reasoned, she spared Bridget deep distress, and was immensely grateful to a kind Catholic couple who were willing to drive her mother to the 10 a.m. Mass every Sunday.

‘You still look pale, Mother,’ she said, pouring out tea for them both. ‘I hope you’re remembering to take your iron tablets.’

‘I’ll take anything Dr McGuinness orders for me, though they don’t agree wid me, I’ll take ’em for sure.’

‘How do they disagree with you?’

‘Nothin’ you need know about, girl.’

‘No, please, Mother, I’ve a right to know. Are you getting any sort of discharge? There was a bloodstain on the side of the toilet seat the other day.’

‘I didn’t mention anythin’ to yeself, Shelagh, and I’ll be seein’ Dr McGuinness next week.’ Her voice rose indignantly. ‘And if ye think I’m goin’ to take down my drawers for you to interfere wid me, ye can think again, me girl.’

Shelagh did not answer, but her heart gave a sudden lurch. She cursed herself for not being more alert to her mother’s pallor and loss of weight – and the bloodstain in the lavatory. She would have to get her mother to attend Mr Kydd’s gynae clinic as soon as possible. But how?

The insistent peep-peep-peep of Shelagh’s bleeper could not be ignored, and she picked up the receiver of the nearest phone to dial the switchboard.

‘Dr Hammond here.’

‘Oh, Dr Hammond, there’s a call for you from Antenatal,’ said the switchboard operator. ‘They sound urgent. I’ll say you’re on your way, shall I?’

‘Thanks.’ In less than a minute she had climbed the stairs two at a time rather than wait for the lift, and hurried along the upper corridor to the antenatal ward of the maternity department. Her eyes swept the twelve-bedded unit: a few patients were sitting in their beds or in armchairs. There was no sign of any emergency.

‘They’re down in the day room, doctor,’ they chorused. ‘We’ve been chucked out!’

She turned and sped along the corridor, past the office, treatment room and kitchen, making for the day room where the new black-and-white television set was now switched off. A woman lay on the carpeted floor, and Shelagh recognised Mrs Jane Blake, a known epileptic. She appeared to be unconscious, and the rigidity of her face and staring eyes, plus the convulsive jerking of her limbs indicated that she was having an epileptic fit of the grand mal severity. Sister Dickenson and Staff Midwife Moffatt were kneeling on each side of her, and looked up when Shelagh hurried in.

‘We’ve been bleeping you for ages, Dr Hammond,’ said Tanya Dickenson. ‘I’ve bleeped Dr McDowall.’

Shelagh’s heart sank. Jane Blake’s epilepsy was usually controlled by daily medication, but the complex hormonal changes of pregnancy had disrupted her equilibrium, and she had been brought into hospital where she could be closely observed. Brief petit mal fits were occurring almost daily, lasting only a few seconds; but this was a full-blown grand mal, a threat to both mother and unborn child.

‘When did this one start, Sister?’ asked Shelagh.

‘Five or six minutes ago, she was watching the news and the other patients called out to us,’ answered the efficient, newly appointed Sister Dickenson. ‘I’ve managed to get a padded metal spatula between her teeth.’

‘Can we get her over on to her side?’ ventured Shelagh, and kneeling beside the patient’s head, she placed her fingers firmly behind Jane’s jaws in an attempt to open her mouth wider, but there was no response, and Jane’s face and lips were turning unpleasantly blue.

‘Be careful, Dr Hammond!’ cried Staff Nurse Laurie Moffatt as the patient ground her teeth, and Shelagh involuntarily withdrew her hand in a moment of panic.

At that moment a firm, hurrying step was heard in the corridor, and into the room swept the tall figure of the medical registrar, Dr Leigh McDowall, his white coat flapping. Shelagh had met him on other occasions when pregnant mothers had medical conditions such as epilepsy, diabetes or asthma. She respected his skill, though his over-familiar manner was irritating.

‘Hey, buck up, girls, don’t just kneel there saying your prayers! What she needs is oxygen – send somebody to lug a cylinder up here now!’

‘I’ve already sent for one,’ said Tanya, and he nodded.

‘Good girl.’

‘Ought we to use tongue forceps?’ asked Shelagh.

‘No, we oughtn’t, barbarous things. Let’s get an airway in.’ He produced a rubber airway from his pocket, and manoeuvring the metal spatula between Jane’s teeth, he inserted it into her mouth and throat, then removed the spatula. As soon as the oxygen cylinder arrived, he placed a black rubber mask over her nose and mouth, sending a stream of pure oxygen into her lungs and thence to her blood vessels. Within thirty seconds the convulsions began to subside, her body relaxed, her eyelids fluttered and her skin began to turn a healthy pink. They all looked at each other with sighs of relief, and McDowall listened to the baby’s heartbeat with his stethoscope.

‘Hi, Jane,’ he murmured softly as her eyes opened, though with no sign of awareness of her surroundings. ‘Don’t worry, m’dear, you’re all right. We’re going to take you back to your bed for a nice long sleep, OK?’

The auxiliary nurse who had brought the oxygen cylinder now appeared with a stretcher trolley, and McDowall lifted Jane bodily on to it, while Tanya and Laurie held her legs. She smiled at them in a bemused way, like someone waking up from a deep sleep, and when she was gently laid on her bed, Tanya put up the cot sides, clicking them into position.

McDowall turned to the midwives. ‘Always keep the O2 at hand, girls, wherever she goes – to the bathroom, the TV lounge or kissing her husband behind a screen, she needs to have it at hand, and the nipper needs it even more.’

Back in the ward office he picked up Jane’s treatment chart. ‘Give her a stat dose of phenytoin, a hundred milligrams, and up the daily dose to four hundred milligrams in all. We can’t go any higher than that because of junior – and carry on with the phenobarbitone at night. I’ll write it all up. Heigh-ho! Time for a reviving cup of tea all round, I’d say, don’t you agree, Tanya?’

The auxiliary was sent to the kitchen to prepare a tray of tea, while McDowall continued, ‘You know, girls, the old man had better get that girl delivered sooner rather than later.’

‘That’s just what we’ve been saying,’ said Tanya, a slim ash-blonde, and Shelagh saw her cool, light-blue eyes appraising McDowall who returned her look, also taking in the attractions of Laurie Moffatt, plump and giggly. Nobody had addressed her, the doctor, and she stood a little way apart from them, her heart still thudding after the incident, and annoyed at herself for not showing as much initiative as Sister Dickenson in dealing with a serious epileptic fit, and being late to answer her bleep. Thankful as she was that McDowall had been summoned, and for his prompt action, she felt that she had appeared to be incompetent; she also disliked hearing the consultant obstetrician and gynaecologist, Mr Kydd, referred to as ‘the old man’, though she silently agreed that an early delivery for Mrs Blake was indicated.

McDowall suddenly turned round in his chair and addressed her over a mug of tea.

‘Don’t you agree, Dr Hammond? The poor little nipper won’t take kindly to his mum flaking out and cutting off his oxygen supply – no fun for either of them.’

‘Mr Kydd will take everything into consideration,’ she said coolly, ‘though the baby’s not very big, even for thirty-six weeks.’

‘And won’t get any bigger if he’s going to have this caper day after day, plus all this dope we’re pumping into her – the little chap’ll be stoned out of his mind.’

Tanya and Laurie giggled, but Shelagh felt her face flaming, cross with herself because this medical man was right, and had made her look silly in front of the midwives.

After the funeral Mrs Maynard’s daughter Marion left with her husband and the children, and Jenny offered to stay overnight with her mother, but Phyllis Maynard told her to go back with Tim to their Everham home, and she would call them if she had any problems. She was at last able to discard the iron self-control that had kept her stony-faced and dry-eyed all day. Unutterably weary, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, where she found Pumpkin, the old, long-haired grey cat curled up on Ben’s side of the bed; she laid down beside him, and he began to purr a welcome. She buried her face in his thick, soft fur, her tears at last flowing unrestrained, wetting his fur; he made no attempt to move away, but regarded her with his wise feline eyes in the mysterious way that animals can show in times of trouble.

‘Oh, Pumpkin, Pumpkin, you know, don’t you, poor old boy? He’s gone away, and we’ll never see him again.’

It was the only comforting moment in this dreadful day.

The Reverend Derek Bolt opened the door to Jeremy North, and showed him into his study.

‘So what are your plans for expanding the choir, Jeremy?’

‘I’d just like to do more with it, recruit more members, and maybe even sing at local venues, especially at Christmas – maybe a special choir I could train up, teach them a few new pieces, part-songs, soloists with a chorus backing, something a little more adventurous than the regular Sunday choir, though that would continue, of course, and hopefully improve.’

‘Where would you rehearse – the church or the hall? And you’d need more than one rehearsal a week, surely, in addition to Thursday evenings?’ Derek Bolt sounded doubtful.

‘That and another evening – I’m pretty sure there’d be a good response, we’ve got some good voices to start with, and the word would be passed round.’

‘There’s Rebecca Coulter, she’s a fine contralto,’ said Derek, ‘and that Miss Oates, she’s got a sweet soprano voice, hasn’t she? But she’s a sister at Everham Park, so she wouldn’t be able to attend all the evening rehearsals—’

‘Actually, she’s on Outpatients, so her hours are more regular than ward staff, and she’d be able to attend most of them,’ said Jeremy casually. ‘There’s old Mr Wetherby, he doesn’t always hit the right note, but he’s loud, so useful pour encourager les autres.’

‘And that chap who cycles here from North Camp, bit of a loner, and – er – likes to mingle with any boys – is he any good? And could he keep his hands to himself? I don’t want to hear of any parental complaints!’

‘Poor old Cyril, fancies himself as a tenor, but a bit whistly. No need to worry, there won’t be many boys under the age of forty-five. What about that quiet little woman who attends just about every service held here, could she add a bit of a joyful noise if asked?’

Derek Bolt frowned. ‘I dare say she would if you asked her, but be careful. She’s a bit – er, neurotic, and inclined to get overemotional.’

‘Really? She always seems as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.’

Ah, but you don’t know her as I do, thought the vicar, and continued, ‘There are those two stalwarts, Mrs Maynard and her friend Mrs Whittaker – and Phyllis’s daughter Jennifer, what’s her name, Gifford. She’d probably join with her mother, and if her husband’s interested—’

‘Poor Phyllis Maynard won’t be up to it yet, though it might be good for her.’

‘Give her time,’ said the vicar. ‘What about the music? Will you use the organ?’

‘No, the Sunday-school piano will do fine.’

‘It seems like a lot of extra work for you, Jeremy, you’ll have to give up two evenings a week. Won’t the family object?’

‘Shouldn’t imagine so. I’m not that necessary at home these days.’

‘How are they all? Didn’t your son get a job at the printworks?’

‘Yes, and daughter Denise got a job at the coal merchant’s, and they’ve both got their P45 cards.’

‘Oh.’ Derek heard the warning note not to enquire further. ‘Well, you have my blessing to go ahead with your search for singers. You can put a bit in the newsletter and on the noticeboard. I’ll say a bit from the pulpit if you like.’

‘Thanks a lot, Derek, that’d be great.’

Driving home, Jeremy North smiled to himself. Hooray! Two evenings a week away from the chaos, teaching willing amateurs to sing, not that Iris will need much teaching, she’s a natural. Nice little thing, must be thirty-something, wonder where she lives and with whom?

He turned into the drive of the large detached house with lighted windows gleaming through the October dusk: a house that had once been a happy family home.

‘Ah, Shelagh my dear, how are you? Sit down, sit down,’ invited Mr Kydd, who usually addressed her as Dr Hammond, but this was an informal interview. He waved her towards a comfortable armchair in his office, and smiled in a fatherly way.

‘It’s good of you to see me, sir—’ she began, conscious of his sharp though kindly eyes peering over the top of his gold-rimmed half-moons.

‘Not at all, my dear. I’ve thinking that we ought to have a little chat. Your work for the past six months has been quite splendid. I’ve been impressed by the way you have developed your skills, and I’d like to keep you on the team – but your next step should be to find a registrarship for a couple of years. I haven’t in fact got a vacancy until next year, but in any case you should go somewhere else now, to widen your experience – see how they do things in Birmingham or Liverpool!’ He beamed at her. ‘I’d be delighted to give you an excellent reference, you know that.’

Shelagh hesitated. ‘Thank you, sir, I appreciate that, but I have a particular reason for wanting to stay in Everham just now.’

The consultant frowned. ‘Oh, you women! People accuse me of male chauvinism, but it’s not my fault that so few women reach the top of our profession – you throw your careers away! Time enough to settle yourself in one place when you’ve got a husband and family to look after! I’m a firm believer that motherhood should take precedence over all other careers, and that rearing the next generation is of top priority – but you’re young, intelligent and free, my dear girl. You’ve plenty of opportunity to advance yourself before you get tied down with a family. Why on earth should you stagnate in Everham just because some wretched man has decided to dig himself in and study for a fellowship, no doubt with an eye to stepping into Mr Fielding’s shoes!’

Shelagh squirmed with embarrassment at his bluntness and accuracy.

‘I have to advise you to move on, Shelagh,’ he continued. ‘Of course you’re welcome to stay here if you really wish it, but you should go and find out some of these new ideas, like electric foetal monitoring with a sensor connected to the woman’s abdomen – they’re trying them out in some of the bigger medical training hospitals. Let your man wait a year or two, and he might appreciate you more!’

Furious with herself for blushing crimson, Shelagh said, ‘It isn’t only because of – of Dr Sykes, sir. There is another consideration.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s my mother, sir. I’m not too happy about her. She’s a widow and we live in Everham so that I can keep an eye on her, which is convenient.’

‘Go on. Why aren’t you happy about her?’

‘I suspect it’s your – our department, sir. She’s had a slight prolapse for years, and a tiresome discharge. I noticed by chance a smear of blood in the toilet the other day—’

‘Good God, woman! – and you call yourself a doctor?’ he said with untypical vehemence. ‘You’ve let your mother suffer for years, when all you had to do was bring her to my gynae clinic. I find it hard to believe, Shelagh.’

She closed her eyes momentarily, and put a hand up to cover her face. ‘It’s not that simple, Mr Kydd. You don’t know her. She comes from an old-fashioned backwater in Donegal, I’m her only child, and we’ve never spoken of – of intimate matters. She can be very stubborn, and won’t consult anybody but her old GP, and I suspect she doesn’t even tell him everything. I think she might have a cervical erosion, in which case—’

‘How old is your mother?’ he interrupted.

‘Nearly fifty-one, sir.’

‘Now, listen to me, Shelagh. You are to bring Mrs Hammond to my gynae clinic at nine on Monday morning without fail – no, make it a quarter to, before we start – is that quite clear?’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’ Her eyes filled with helpless, shameful tears at his confirmation of her own suspicions; post-menopausal bleeding could mean uterine cancer.

‘Whatever must you think of me?’ she faltered.

‘Oh, my dear, I understand, perhaps better than you think,’ he said with a sigh of regret for some private memory. ‘We don’t always want to face facts when dealing with our own families, though we’re quick to make pronouncements on strangers. I’ll see her on Monday, and we’ll get to the root of the trouble, whatever it is.’

‘I’m very grateful to you, Mr Kydd,’ she said simply.

‘Glad to be of help, my dear. Now, as you want to stay on as houseman on obs and gynae, I’ll get another contract drawn up for you with the management committee for a further six months. There’s just one thing I should point out to you, Shelagh.’ Was that a gleam of mischief behind the half-moons? ‘You’ll be senior houseman this time, and your junior will be Dr McDowall, who’s senior to you in all other respects. An unusual situation, as you’ll agree.’

‘Dr McDowall?’ Shelagh exclaimed in astonishment. ‘But how – I mean he’s a medical registrar!’

‘Not permanently. He plans to go into general practice eventually, and feels he needs to recap on obs and gynae – so he’s taking demotion for six months as a houseman. Very good man in his field, and will be an asset on the team, to deal with our diabetics and asthmas and epileptics – oh, and that reminds me, I intend to do a caesarean section on our Mrs Blake next week. It’s one of those difficult questions, a choice of two evils. Would the baby stand a better chance inside its mother, or in the Special Care Baby Unit? After a discussion with McDowall, I’ve come down on the side of the latter. Do you agree?’

‘Yes, sir, I most certainly do,’ she said, getting up from her chair and shaking the hand he held out to her.

‘Good luck, my dear. Actually, I think our friend McDowall could learn a lot from you. And I’ll see you in Outpatients with Mrs Hammond on Monday.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘It’s early days as yet, Phyllis,’ said Mary Whittaker. ‘Up to about six months you’re allowed to break down and weep in the supermarket, but after that you have to buck up, or you become a bit of a bore. I know, I’ve been through it.’

Phyllis Maynard, who remembered when Tom Whittaker, a friend of Ben’s on the town council, had died, appreciated her friend’s frankness, but did not yet feel ready to face the world.

‘People are very kind, Mary, and I get asked to coffee mornings and bring-and-buy sales, but to be quite honest I’m always tired, and I find company even lonelier than solitude.’

‘Ah, you poor dear, take it from me, you will find that it starts to get better,’ said Mary. ‘Look, have you heard about this new Christmas choir that Jeremy North’s getting together? He’s such a nice, humorous man, isn’t he, and so full of enthusiasm – why don’t we both join, it will be good for us, and brighten up the winter evenings.’

‘I’m dreading Christmas, Mary.’

‘Oh, my dear, Christmas will come and go like it always does, and in the New Year you’ll start to look ahead again. Come on, let’s go and have a coffee at Edward’s.’

Getting her mother to the clinic was not easy, and Shelagh needed all her forbearance. Bridget refused to hurry over breakfast, having resisted her daughter’s help in producing an early morning specimen of urine into a plastic jug which Shelagh then poured into a small sterile labelled container. She then refused help in getting dressed in her clean, lavender-scented underwear – Directoire knickers and lisle stockings held up by suspenders dangling from a belt beneath her long woollen vest, and a petticoat. She must be the only woman in Everham who still wears such outdated undies, thought Shelagh; whoever would know that we’re into the 1960s? She wondered where Bridget would shop when the old-fashioned ladies’ outfitters in North Camp finally closed its Edwardian doors. When at last she helped her mother into the car, the two were scarcely on speaking terms, although Shelagh did her best to be patient.

The outpatients department was at the front of the building, and consisted of a series of examination rooms with a large waiting area in the middle. Shelagh was thankful for Bridget’s early appointment, but Mr Kydd had not yet arrived. Sister Oates was there beside his consulting room, and invited them to sit down in the front row, though Shelagh felt self-conscious among the other early patients attending the gynae clinic.

‘Dr Hammond!’ said a voice close to them, ‘and waiting to see Mr Kydd? Nothing serious, I hope?’

Dr McDowall in a pristine white coat stood before them, and Shelagh burnt with embarrassment.

‘My mother is waiting to see Mr Kydd,’ she said shortly, and before he could reply, Bridget Hammond broke in with, ‘Who’s this one, then? Is he the one who’s goin’ to meddle wid me?’

‘No, Mother, this is somebody quite different. Mr Kydd will be here in a minute.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Hammond,’ said McDowall politely, holding out his hand which Bridget pointedly refused to shake. ‘You’ll like Mr Kydd, he’s—’

‘Ye can save the blarney, Dr Whoever-ye-are, I’m here against me own wishes entirely,’ she interrupted. ‘All I want is to get out o’ this place!’

He glanced at Shelagh. ‘Look, let me get you both a cup of tea from the WRVS stand over there.’

To Shelagh’s relief she saw Mr Kydd arrive and go into his examination room. Sister Oates beckoned to them.

‘Come on, Mother, we’re going in to see Mr Kydd now, so if you’ll excuse us, Dr McDowall—’

But Bridget objected strongly to Shelagh’s presence at the consultation. ‘Holy Mother o’ God, I won’t have you standin’ there watchin’ me – your own mother, it’s not decent! This tidy little body can come in,’ she added, indicating Sister Oates who gave Shelagh an apologetic look.

‘Perhaps you’d care to wait, Dr Hammond.’

McDowall turned down the corners of his mouth in a sympathetic grimace. ‘Let’s have that cup of tea now, shall we?’

‘No, thank you, Dr McDowall, I’ll wait for my mother. I’m sorry for the way she spoke to you, but I’m sure you have other duties to attend to. Good morning.’

He raised his eyebrows, shrugged and walked away.

It was dark when the Reverend Derek Bolt drove into his garage, not sorry to be done with the day’s business. The meeting of the diocesan clergy had been dominated by the church’s dire financial straits, and the best that they could hope for was that their Christmas Fairs or Fayres would bring in a thousand or two from the stalls, raffles, tombola, various competitions and for the children a visit to Santa in his grotto; Derek hoped that a better volunteer than old Mr Wetherby would come forward, willing to put on the red coat, white moustache and beard. With Daphne being a little temperamental at present with menopausal moods, he could not rely on her to bake and decorate the usual large Christmas cake for the raffle; perhaps Mrs Coulter would oblige, or Miss Oates – he couldn’t ask Mrs Maynard, though in fact it might be good for her, give her something to do …

The light in the kitchen window beckoned invitingly. He pulled down the overhead garage door, and was about to lock it when – oh, heck. There was a tug at his arm and a breathless, urgent voice in his ear.

‘Mr Bolt – Derek – will you listen, just for a minute, for the love of God!’

It was Beryl Johnson, again. He swung round, but her hand still clutched his arm. He took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Now, Miss Johnson, you really must not – er – waylay me in this way.’

‘You showed me kindness, you showed me pity at my mother’s funeral. Can’t you please show it to me again? Don’t send me away, please!’ Her voice rose, and he feared they might be overheard in the kitchen. He shook her hand off his arm.

‘Stop this, Miss Johnson, stop it at once, do you hear? I only meant to comfort you at Mrs Johnson’s funeral, nothing more. I’m a happily married man, and you must stop this now.’

‘Only if you promise to come and see me, listen to me—’

‘Of course I can’t come to your house, you know that.’

‘But you visited Mrs Maynard yesterday, I saw you. You stayed there half an hour.’

‘You’ve been following me again. It’s got to stop, I tell you.’

‘Then let me meet you in the church, just for ten minutes, just to talk, only for a few minutes, it’s not asking much, Derek!’

‘Pull yourself together, Miss Johnson,’ he said firmly. ‘Look, I know you’ve suffered at losing your mother, but that was some weeks ago, and it’s time to move on. Rejoin the land of the living, for heaven’s sake.’

She stood there beside him in the dark, crying quietly, and he felt at a loss. She lived alone in the semi she had shared with old Mrs Johnson, and her only near relative, a brother, lived in Canada. He had come over for the funeral and to help Beryl sort out the various formalities that surround a death in the family, and had returned to Ontario. At the funeral Derek Bolt had put an arm around her and held her head against his chest for a moment, a public gesture seen by all present; and this is where that spontaneous moment of sympathy had led. He admitted to himself that he had a certain responsibility towards Beryl Johnson who was, after all, in his spiritual care by the nature of his office. And Christ would have been gentle with her. Poor woman, he thought. Poor, unhappy woman.

‘I do feel for you, my dear—’

She stopped crying, and held her breath. He had called her his dear. His dear.

‘Oh, thank you, Derek, thank you, God bless you, bless you!’

‘Sssh! You must go home now.’

There was a pause, and she whispered, ‘All right, as long as I know that you feel for me just a little, I’ll do as you say.’

‘Good girl.’ It seemed the right thing to say, though she was over fifty. She was also in an emotional state, it was dark, and she had about a mile to walk, and two main roads to cross. Suppose a car or bus …

‘I’ll get the car out again and run you home. Only you must never do this again, do you understand?’

‘Yes, I’ll try. Thank you, Der—Mr Bolt,’ she whispered.

He opened the garage, backed the car out, and she got in. He reminded her to fasten her safety belt, then drove her across Everham, pulling up outside the unlit semi in Angel Close. He reminded her to unfasten the belt, and leant across to open the passenger door. He did not get out to help her, but stayed where he was, with the engine running. Before she got out, she faced him.

‘Let me kiss you.’

He let her kiss his cheek while he sat still as a statue, looking straight ahead.

‘Good night, Miss Johnson.’

She got out of the car and walked slowly to her front door. He watched her unlock it and disappear inside. A light went on in the hall. He reproached himself for not once mentioning prayer; he should have told her to pray about her situation. And so should he.

‘What was going on out there, Derek?’ asked Daphne when he went in through the kitchen door. ‘I heard you arrive and put the car away, but then you took it out again, said something to somebody and drove off. What happened?’

‘Yes. Remembered I was out of—out of—’

‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want me to know. I’m used to being the vicar’s wife, the last person to be told anything.’

Poor Daphne, he thought guiltily. There were so many confidential matters that people told him, which he was not free to tell her or anybody. He should have just said that he’d had an urgent call and dealt with it as well as he could, as had happened on previous occasions. So why try to lie to her? He felt uneasily ashamed, and tried to apologise.

‘You’re wonderful, Daphne, being married to a “man of the cloth”, and having to put up with his round-the-clock duties!’ he said, kissing her and patting her bottom. She made no reply except to say that his supper was in the oven, and she hoped it was not too dry.

Shelagh managed to keep her emotion under control when Mr Kydd invited her into his office, indicated a chair and offered her coffee and biscuits. Such largesse warned her of unwelcome news.

‘I see what you mean, Shelagh, your mother’s quite a character, isn’t she? Not the easiest patient to deal with! It must have been difficult to persuade her to come to my clinic, and I have to congratulate you on achieving it!’

He smiled, and Shelagh waited with bated breath for his verdict.

‘I’ve told her that she needs an operation as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘I shall need to do a radical hysterectomy without delay – uterus, ovaries, tubes and any lymph glands in the area, a complete pelvic clearance.’

Shelagh gasped and put her hand to her mouth. She stared at the consultant, eyes wide.

‘Yes, Mr Kydd,’ she whispered.

‘So, my dear, I’d like to admit her on Monday next, for surgery on Wednesday. We’ll need to do the usual tests, and cross-match a couple of pints of blood. You know as well as I do what the prognosis is likely to be. I’ve left Mrs Hammond – she doesn’t approve of first names! – a glimmer of hope, and I offer that glimmer to you, Shelagh. We’ll follow the operation with a course of chemotherapy, and possible radium, depending on how she responds. It’s going to be difficult for you, Shelagh, and we’ll arrange for social services to visit and give some daily help when she’s discharged. She says she doesn’t want it, and I didn’t waste my time arguing with her, because I feel pretty sure that she will change her mind after the op.’ He drew a long breath and added, ‘I’m so sorry, my dear. We’ll all rally round on obs and gynae, you know that you are highly valued.’

She gave a wintry smile. ‘Thank you, Mr Kydd, I appreciate your frankness.’ She rose from her chair. ‘I’ll get my mother admitted on Monday.’

‘Good. I’ll speak to Sister Kelly on Gynae about a single room. We must provide the very best care for Dr Hammond’s mother!’

‘I’ll encourage her as much as I can, Mr Kydd.’