A Family Affair (46 page)

She tried to ring Guy. Usually so self-sufficient, on this occasion Helen desperately needed to talk about what had happened to someone who would understand. But Guy was unavailable, and his secretary, who was based at the private clinic from which he sometimes operated, was evasive.

‘If I could take your name and address I'll pass the message on.'

‘No, it doesn't matter,' Helen said, ashamed, already, of having run to Guy for support, and also wary about giving the woman her name. Guy had his own flat now, in Clifton, but they were still being discreet.

‘That's not Susan, is it?' the secretary enquired.

‘No, it's not.' Helen almost, but not quite, fell into the trap. Crafty secretary, using a trick like that to try to get her to disclose her identity. ‘I already said – it's not important. I'll catch up with him later.'

She put down the phone and picked up the list of house calls Dorothea had left on her desk. Reuben had been right to say she must not let this unfortunate business distract her from giving her other patients her full attention. But it wasn't easy to concentrate on sorting the wheat from the chaff with something like this hanging over her.

Somehow she got through the day, the usual mish-mash of infections and minor complaints interspersed with the occasional more serious one. But now she felt less than confident about the simplest diagnosis and imagined, too, that she saw doubt in the faces of her patients. If she felt like this now, what would it be like when the story got around – particularly if the coroner decided some blame should be attached to her. Helen's face burned as she imagined the word negligence being bandied round.

By the time she finished afternoon surgery she was shaking with fatigue. The constant worrying seemed to have drained all her last resources.

Helen sighed, pulled herself together and looked at her watch. Six thirty. Perhaps this would be a good time to call Guy again. He should be home by now. She dialled the number, imagining him relaxing with a gin and tonic, perhaps in the bath even, soaking away the smells of the hospital. But the phone rang and rang and suddenly she realised she wouldn't have known what to say to him anyway. Wasn't this just what she had always tried to hide from him – her doubts, her insecurities, her failures? Just hearing his voice would have been a comfort, of course, but when had he ever been there when she had needed him? Tears of self-pity pricked in the corners of her eyes. For as long as she could remember, it seemed to her, she had fought her battles alone.

She blinked fiercely, annoyed with herself for her weakness. If she was alone, it was her own fault. Her choice. Maybe the first time around she hadn't known what she was letting herself in for, getting involved with him. She'd been too naive, too trusting, too much in love. But this time she hadn't been under any illusions. She'd thought she was battle-scarred enough to cope, that she'd just play along and see how things developed. She'd let him flatter and cajole his way back into her life, and pretended to herself that she was the one in control. But all the time she'd been walking back into the same peat bog, falling into the same trap. All over again.

Who did you think you were kidding, Helen?

Too weary and depressed to be able to make the effort to clear up and go home, Helen folded her arms on her desk and lay her head on them. The events of the day were still going around in her mind, overlaid now with depression about her feelings for Guy – such unwanted, treacherous feelings, yet so totally out of her control – but they were blurring, becoming oddly distant and confused. She could hear the rain beating on the window and the wind moaning softly, she could hear the murmur of voices, but they too were distant, muzzy.

Exhausted from overwork, broken nights and too much emotion,

Helen slept.

The sound of the door being opened jolted her awake. She raised her head sharply, jarring her neck. Her vision was slightly blurred and her mouth tasted stale.

‘Helen? Are you all right?'

It was Paul, standing in the doorway.

‘Yes – yes, I'm OK. I must have fallen asleep.' She massaged her sore neck, squinting at him.

‘Strange place to choose.'

‘I didn't choose it, I just …' She rubbed her eyes, leaving a dark smudge of mascara on her lower lid, ‘I was just sitting here thinking and I …'

‘I saw your car was still here – and your light on,' he said, by way of belated explanation. And then: ‘Do you want to talk about it?'

‘Ida Lockyear? You've heard then?'

‘Reuben phoned me.'

‘I cocked up,' she said bluntly.

‘You did, didn't you?' He came in, closing the door behind him. ‘You shouldn't be too hard on yourself, though. It could happen to anyone.'

‘Carbon monoxide poisoning. It never even crossed my mind …'

‘It's pretty unusual. You weren't to know the state of her boiler. If anyone's to blame it's her son for not making sure it was safe. And it has to be said, Ida herself must take some of the blame. She'd bunged up all the ventilation in that kitchen with rags. To keep the warmth in, I suppose, and the draughts out.'

‘But she's dead,' Helen said. ‘And she was my patient. I should have thought!' She hesitated. ‘Reuben thinks so, too. He's furious with me.'

‘Of course he's not furious. Just worried. He is the senior partner in this practice, after all. The buck stops with him.'

‘Well, I got the very definite impression that I was not exactly flavour of the month.'

‘I don't suppose you are, but …'

‘And I've blown any chance I might have had of being offered a partnership here.'

The moment the words were out she could have bitten off her tongue.

Paul was looking at her with an expression that was both startled and quizzical.

‘You want a partnership? Here?'

‘Oh, I know I'm being presumptive. I know I haven't been here very long and I've no right … but yes, actually, that's what I've been hoping for ever since I came. Surely that's what every GP works towards? And this is my family's home town, remember.'

‘Well, yes, but …' He swung back on the cupboards. ‘I had the impression you'd be wanting to get back to Bristol when the time was right.'

Her face flamed. He'd made some enquiries, of course, and now he knew not only exactly who Guy was, but also that he had a wife and children to account for. It wouldn't have been difficult. Guy was well known in medical circles.

‘I never wanted to go back to Bristol,' she said. ‘I plan to make my home here. That's why I've bought a house, why I'm hoping to get Charlotte to come and live with me. And naturally I hoped I might get a partnership eventually. Yes, I admit it. But I guess that'll be out of the window now.'

He swung forward again, regarding her steadily.

‘I don't think Reuben would hold it against you. Provided he's satisfied with you in every other respect.'

‘Mmm.' She thought, but didn't say, that she had the very definite impression that Reuben was not entirely satisfied with her. Recently everything had seemed to be going wrong – Miss Freeman dying of pneumonia at home, not in hospital as Reuben would have preferred; the family who had defected to Dr Honeybourne at South Compton because they were unhappy about her treatment of their daughter; a hundred and one little things when she'd seen his eyebrows go up and his mouth tighten.

‘I have a say in it too,' Paul reminded her.
Yes, and I alienated you by going back to Guy
, she thought.

‘Look, Helen, you've really got to stop crucifying yourself over Ida Lockyear,' he went on. ‘It could have happened to any of us. I'd probably have come to exactly the same conclusion. We talked about her – remember? You told me all about her symptoms and I didn't cotton on either.'

‘That's true … we did talk about her, didn't we?' Helen said, brightening a little.

‘We did. And like you I thought it was nothing more serious than a case of extreme loneliness. We're doctors, Helen, not clairvoyants.'

‘But if I'd visited her at home I might have realised …'

‘Did she ask for a home visit?'

‘No, but …'

‘There you are then. You did all you could reasonably be expected to do.'

She was silent, chewing her lip.

‘And now,' he said, ‘I really think you should go home and try to get some rest while you can. This has been a long winter and it's not over yet. You look all in.'

‘I am,' she admitted.

‘Have you had anything to eat today?'

‘Toast at breakfast. I didn't feel like anything at lunchtime.'

‘You must eat.'

For a moment she thought he was going to suggest they got fish and chips as they had sometimes used to, and to her surprise she felt her heart lift. She'd missed him; she'd really missed him. But he didn't suggest fish and chips.

‘Go home, get yourself a good supper, have a hot bath and go to bed,' he said. ‘Doctor's orders.'

She smiled, wearily and a little sadly.

‘OK, I will.'

‘And stop worrying – right?'

‘Right.'

At least, she thought, as she drove home through the dark, rain-slick streets, some good had come out of tragedy. At least she and Paul had gone some way to mending their bridges, and for that she was grateful. But to lose a patient in such a way was a high price to pay for it.

‘Was there any post for me today, Mum?' Jenny asked.

Carrie, straining potatoes over the sink, kept her eyes fixed on the pan.

‘Post?'

‘Yes. A letter for me – from Bryn.'

Carrie gave her head a small non-committal shake.

‘Haven't seen anything.'

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Jenny's face. She looked not only disappointed but worried somehow.

‘You were expecting a letter, were you?' she asked ingenuously.

‘Well – yes. I usually hear every two or three days. It's been five.'

Carrie snorted in a good imitation of scornful amusement.

‘Five days!'

‘I know it doesn't sound much,' Jenny said defensively. But it's a long time for Bryn.'

‘I expect the shine's wearing off,' Carrie said.

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's been a bit much of it, writing every two or three days. You can't expect him to keep that up, especially when you haven't seen him for months and you hardly knew him in the first place.'

‘That's an awful thing to say!'

Carrie turned to replace the saucepan on the hob and saw that Jenny's eyes had filled with tears. She experienced a pang of guilt but quickly smothered it. She'd done what she'd done for Jenny's own good. But she wished Jenny didn't have to be hurt in the process.

‘Oh, I expect you'll hear by the end of the week,' she said, an attempt at comfort which came out sounding impatient. ‘In the meantime, just try and forget about him. Nothing's going to come of it in the end. It won't last, Jenny.'

‘Oh yes it will,' Jenny said. The tears were still glittering in her eyes and there was a small uncontrollable tremble at the corner of her mouth. But there was a certainty in her voice that made alarm bells ring in Carrie's gut. ‘Oh yes it will, Mum. As far as I'm concerned, it's going to last for ever!'

Jenny was almost beside herself. It was three weeks now since she had heard from Bryn. And that was not the worst of it. She was horribly, sickeningly sure that she was pregnant.

The realisation had not come as a shock to her. In a strange sort of way she felt as if she had known right from the very first day. Somehow, without being able to explain it, she had felt different.

At first she had tried to explain it to herself as the result of being in love – making love for the first time – being parted from Bryn so soon afterwards. The strange niggly sensation deep inside could be nervous excitement, so might that feeling of not-quite nausea. Even missing a period could be put down to the same thing – everyone knew that tension and the like could upset a cycle. But as the days became weeks and still her period didn't come she began to acknowledge as fact what she had known all along.

At first her moods veered between dread of what Carrie would say and excitement. If she put all the practicalities to one side, the thought of having Bryn's child was actually an intoxicating one. She missed him so much! If she was pregnant they'd get married. Then they'd be together – wouldn't they? – a proper family, she and Bryn and the baby. She wasn't actually sure whether National Servicemen were allocated married quarters or not, but he wouldn't be doing National Service for ever. Somehow they'd manage to be together. It was all she wanted now, and she felt confident it was what he would want too.

Yet she mentioned nothing of this in her letters to Bryn. Several times she began to write of her suspicions, each time she tore the page up and began again. This wasn't something she wanted to commit to paper. She wanted to tell him face to face, have his immediate support and reassurance. And supposing her letter went astray or was opened by someone else? It was such a private thing, telling a man you were going to have his child. They'd talked about him coming to stay – she'd even asked Carrie about it and got a tentative agreement, but if she reneged on that, Jenny was fairly sure she could persuade Heather to allow him to stay with her. She'd wait a while. There was still plenty of time.

And then his letters stopped coming.

Every day Jenny rushed home, eagerly at first, and then with growing desperation. She kept reminding herself of those first few weeks after he'd gone, when she'd gone through the same sort of experience. It had been all right then; it must be all right now. There must be a reason for him not writing. But none of the scenarios she came up with really held water. Jenny's anxiety became so acute that she couldn't forget it for a single moment of a single day. It was with her from the moment she woke each morning, and it invaded her dreams so that they were overlaid with an aura of nightmare.