The Country Doctor's Choice (10 page)

‘But we know what she’s thinking, don’t we?’ said Mary. ‘Or rather, who she’s thinking about. Frankly I think she should be referred to a psychiatrist.’

‘Poor soul.’

‘Poor Derek Bolt, I’d say – you never know what a woman like that is going to do next. Everybody’s talking about her. I’m surprised that she still attends St Matthew’s.’

‘For all we know, Derek may have had words with her, you know, warning her off.’

‘Changing the subject, Phyllis, what a nice son-in-law you have, a real asset to the choir.’

‘Yes, Tim’s a sweetie. Jenny talked him into it, it’s the evening she goes to Keep Fit.’

‘And is there any news of the adoption plans yet?’

‘Not so far, apart from correspondence, sheaves of forms to fill in, and they’ve got to find two non-related referees before their names can even be considered. It’s going to be a long haul, Mary, and needing a solicitor makes it quite expensive. Never mind! It’s such a relief to see both of them looking so much better. I was really worried about Jenny, and I just hope and pray that it won’t be too long before they hear some good news.’

‘Your mum’s had one of those strange remissions, Shelagh,’ remarked Leigh McDowall, ‘and she’s giving thanks for living to see another spring. Nice to see her and Maura having a good old sisterly argument!’

‘Of course we’re all pleased,’ said Shelagh coolly, ‘though it means she’ll have to face the inevitable decline again.’

‘All the more reason for enjoying the present, I’d say. Her sister thinks it’s a miracle.’

‘Yes, unfortunately. Poor Miss Carlin is going to be disappointed.’ She turned back to studying Mr Kydd’s theatre list for the following day, irritated by his familiar way of speaking about her mother and aunt. Perhaps they’d told him of Paul Sykes’ visit, which might lessen his disapproval of their night away. Even so, she still felt embarrassed, knowing herself to be under obligation to him, and wanting him to realise that she cared nothing at all about what he thought.

Staff Nurse Moffatt came into the office to check on a patient’s medication, and seeing Shelagh, she said, ‘By the way, Dr Hammond, there’s a storm brewing on Postnatal. The night sister’s in trouble with the paediatrician over the breast-or-bottle controversy, and she’s terribly upset.’

‘Tell me more,’ said Shelagh, turning to give Laurie her full attention. ‘I know that Dr Fisher is adamant that all mothers should breastfeed their babies, but
perhaps he makes the bottle-feeders feel unnecessarily guilty. What’s happened, then?’

‘We all know that there are mothers who genuinely haven’t got enough milk to feed their babies, but he insists that if they persevere the milk will increase. Apparently he’s furious because Night Sister Hicks has been giving the babies top-ups in the night.’

Leigh McDowall, still in the office, said, ‘Dr Fisher knows his stuff, and his wife breastfed without any fuss when she was delivered here. The mothers are lucky to have a paediatrician who takes such an interest in infant feeding.’

Shelagh spoke to the staff midwife. ‘I’ll look into it, Laurie. Sister Hicks on postnatal night duty has had years of experience, and I can understand how she feels if Dr Fisher comes round telling her how to do her job. I’ll have a word with her.’

McDowall shrugged and left the office.

It was at the Wednesday market in Everham’s market square that Phyllis Maynard met Fiona North at the greengrocery stall. Snow still hung around in drifts, and a few flakes were falling.

‘Hello, Mrs North,’ she said. ‘Are you surviving this delightful winter weather?’

‘It’s just one more trial to put up with,’ was the dour reply, and Phyllis thought she ought to sympathise.

‘Sorry to hear that – er – Mrs North – I’m sorry but
I’m hopeless at remembering names,’ she apologised. ‘You’ll have to remind me.’

‘Fiona, though I’m not bothered what I’m called.’

‘Phyllis, and I’m not bothered either! I’m a member of your husband’s famous choir – Jeremy could get a joyful sound out of a chorus of cats!’

‘Don’t talk to me about his precious choir,’ snapped Fiona. ‘All very well for you old ladies to swoon over him, but if you had any idea of the way he treats his own family, you might not be so enamoured.’

Phyllis was taken aback by such uncalled-for rudeness, but wanted to remain civil.

Fiona continued on a rising note, ‘He’s got no sympathy, no understanding of the problems of young people, even his own children. For all that he’s a headmaster, I could tell you things about your wonderful Mr North that would make your hair stand up on end!’

People were turning round to see who was speaking so loudly, and Phyllis took her by the arm. ‘We can’t stand here in this snow. Come on, what we need is a nice hot cup of coffee, so let’s go to Edward’s, it’s always nice and cosy in there.’

Fiona allowed herself to be led to the popular bakery that also had a café at the back. Phyllis chose a corner table, and told Fiona to sit down while she went to order coffee. The proprietress Mrs Pearce stepped forward to serve her, having taken in the situation with interest.

‘Having a bit of trouble, Mrs Maynard?’ she asked in a low voice. ‘She’s the headmaster’s wife, isn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ answered Phyllis briefly. ‘We need two coffees with milk – and I think a couple of toasted teacakes would be nice.’

Mrs Pearce sniffed; no chance of a piece of juicy gossip from this churchy woman, but she’d heard the talk about the North’s grown-up children, none of whom had been to university, and the eldest girl had a child with no father.

‘There we are, Fiona, let’s both enjoy a little break from all this snow. Let me see, now, didn’t your eldest girl go to school with one of my daughters?’

‘No, she couldn’t have, yours are much older. My poor Denise was let down by a rotter when she was only twenty, so her chances went by the board. I’ve stood by her, and helped her to bring up the boy – and now the poor, sweet, trusting girl has been let down for a second time,’ said Fiona, bursting into angry tears. ‘And all
he
can do is complain about how much it’s going to cost. Poor Denise worked very hard at Trencher’s before she became ill.’

Trencher’s. The coal merchant’s. Phyllis remembered hearing that Denise had been sacked for being frequently off sick. She decided not to get too involved with this woman, and to avoid asking questions about Denise or any of the family. From what she knew of Jeremy North, she doubted that he could be such a monster as his wife had described,
for he was as well respected at Everham Primary as he was at St Matthew’s. Other people’s lives, thought Phyllis, so often not what they appear to be, but she had no wish to hear anything more from this woman about her husband. They drank their coffee and ate their teacakes, for which Phyllis refused to accept any payment, and as Fiona now looked more composed, they went their separate ways.

Shelagh put on a smile and a deliberately relaxed air as she sauntered into Postnatal before going for her lunch. All twelve beds were occupied in the main ward, and apart from one howling baby there was a peaceful atmosphere. A couple of mothers were contentedly breastfeeding their babies, others were sleeping, their babies having been returned to the nursery. A middle-aged nursing auxiliary, Connie, was helping a new mother to fix her sleepy baby on to the nipple, and in the last bed sat Mrs Shirley Gainsford, struggling with a yelling ten-pound boy born the previous day by caesarean section.

‘Hello, mums, how’re we doing?’ asked Shelagh easily. ‘My word, young master Gainsford’s making his presence felt! – aren’t you, young man?’

Mrs Gainsford, flushed and frowning, did not look up from her task. The baby’s arms and legs were flailing as he resisted her efforts.

‘I’m determined to get Justin to fix onto the nipple and stimulate the milk ducts,’ she said. ‘He’s got to learn who’s boss!’

‘It’s early days as yet, Shirley,’ said Shelagh, sitting down on the side of the bed. ‘Caesarean babies often take longer to learn the art of suckling, and you’ve got a sore tummy which doesn’t help, and he’s a big baby, isn’t he? Added to which, you won’t have much milk for him yet. I suggest a little bottle of boiled water to help him to settle.’

Out of the corner of her eye Shelagh saw Connie the auxiliary grimace and roll up her eyes, but she was unprepared for Mrs Gainsford’s reaction.

‘What? A
bottle
? No way, doctor, you’re as bad as that tiresome sister on night duty. Justin is
not
going to have a rubber teat shoved into his mouth, and in any case, there
will
be colostrum for him, the forerunner of milk, with valuable protein. Dr Fisher explained it all to me. Come on, Justin darling, show the doctor what you can do!’

But Justin steadfastly refused to show the doctor anything but his rage, and Shelagh sighed inwardly. Shirley Gainsford was a teacher of mathematics at Everham College, in her middle thirties, and this was her first baby. She was an articulate woman who had come to the Delivery Unit wanting a natural delivery without pain relief, but after six hours of excruciating contractions with no progress, Dr Rowan had performed a caesarean section and extracted a big baby who had opened his mouth and roared right from the beginning, and had scarcely stopped since, or so it seemed to
the other mothers in the ward. The walls of the postnatal ward carried posters of smiling mothers and babies, all proclaiming that
Breast is Best
, and Dr Fisher the consultant paediatrician visited the postnatal ward from time to time, to promote this excellent dictum.

‘Very well, Shirley,’ said Shelagh gently, ‘I’ll leave you to deal with Justin yourself.’

She followed Connie into the ward office, and the auxiliary shook her head.

‘Oh, doctor, you shouldn’t have mentioned the word
bottle
to her, it’s like red rag to a bull. She goes berserk at the very mention of it!’

‘So I see,’ said Shelagh. ‘The trouble with the Mrs Gainsfords of the world is that they’ve read all the textbooks, been to the relaxation classes, and then reality sometimes comes as a shock, not as straightforward as they’d been led to expect.’

Connie nodded in agreement.

‘So, what do we do about Justin and his mother? Come on, Connie, you’ve had three children and you must have
some
suggestion!’

‘Try letting her give him a little boiled water with a plastic spoon? He’ll spit it all over the place, of course, but it might get a little fluid into him. We have to avoid upsetting her at all costs. If she hadn’t been so influenced by Dr Fisher, we could give him a few ounces of half-strength formula milk, just to settle him, and give us all a break – Sister Hicks said
he kept the whole ward awake last night, because Mrs Gainsford wants to have his cot beside her day and night, so it’s no wonder the other poor mums want to go home!’

Shelagh was thoughtful. Should she try to have a word with Dr Fisher? No, because he wouldn’t listen to a mere house officer. His wife had recently given birth to her first baby in this hospital, a normal delivery, and had breastfed like a dream from day one. Even so, Shelagh was worried about Mrs Gainsford; she owed it to all the mothers to maintain a happy atmosphere, and remembered being told by an old midwife that there should be no such words as
must
or
can’t
on a postnatal ward, especially to the first-timers who were having to adjust to a complete change of lifestyle, and often felt anxious and inadequate. In the end she telephoned Mr Kydd’s office, and left a message. He phoned her back that same afternoon.

‘It’s the matter of breastfeeding, Mr Kydd. The mothers just aren’t getting enough sleep, thanks to baby Gainsford the ten-pounder delivered by section yesterday. His mother insists on having his cot by her bed night and day, so the other mothers can’t sleep, and the night sister’s at her wit’s end, thanks to Dr Fisher lecturing them on
Breast is Best
.’

‘Ah, yes, Mrs Gainsford, I’m not surprised. She’s not likely to have much milk yet, anyway. You know I usually hand over feeding problems to the midwives,
they know better than I do as a rule. So what exactly is the problem?’

‘The baby’s big and hungry, with a voice like a foghorn, and won’t suck, but Mrs Gainsford won’t allow him to be given a top-up, to tide him over until the milk comes in. I don’t know whether to approach Dr Fisher—’

‘And get a flea in your ear? No, go ahead and do what you and the midwives think best, Shelagh, and if Fisher complains, let me know. How’s Bridget, by the way? McDowall says she’s having a remission.’

‘Yes, Mr Kydd, she is, though of course it won’t last.’

‘Then make the most of it while it does last, Shelagh. And good luck with Mrs G!’

Two deliveries took place that evening, managed by student midwives under supervision, and Shelagh retired to her narrow bed in the doctors’ quarters, on call for admissions and emergencies. It was two-forty when the bedside telephone roused her, and she switched on the light and lifted the receiver. It was Night Sister Hicks, sounding agitated. She had fallen out with Mrs Gainsford, she said, and ‘words’ had been exchanged.

‘And the worst of it is, doctor, she’s telephoned her husband and asked him to come and take her home – I ask you, a two-day caesarean! And all the women are awake!’ She was on the verge of tears.

Oh, heck, thought Shelagh, and said, ‘All right, Sister Hicks, I’ll be over right away. Get your auxiliary to make tea and toast for the patients.’

She threw her white coat over her pyjamas, and stepped into her shoes. On the ward, she noticed that baby Justin was quietly sleeping, and went to the office where Sister Hicks sat, flushed and untidy, hairpins flying out of the twisted grey coil at the back of her head. She rose when she saw Shelagh.

‘She was sleeping, Dr Hammond, in fact they were all asleep when that baby started crying again, so I brought him into the office and gave him two ounces of half-strength formula milk. ‘He wolfed it down as if he was starving, doctor, it was pitiful.’

A shadow at the door signalled Mrs Gainsford coming into the office in her nightgown and bare feet. ‘I won’t stand for it, Dr Hammond! This ignorant woman picked my baby up and gave him a bottle of formula rubbish, knowing that I had expressly forbidden it, and in defiance of Dr Fisher’s orders!’