The Country Doctor's Choice (17 page)

‘Not in this case,’ said Miss Gladwell gravely. ‘His mother was a single girl of just seventeen who died of kidney failure a few weeks after he was born by caesarean section. The girl’s mother is an alcoholic who won’t be interested. His mother named him Donovan, but of course you can change that if you like when you legally adopt him.’

‘How very sad for the girl,’ said Tim, shaking his head.

‘But how lucky for
us
, to be able to take him and bring him up as our son!’ cried Jenny happily. ‘Wait
till I tell my mother! Donovan! It’s a good name – shall we keep to it, Tim, and let him be called by the name his mother chose for him?’

So Donovan he remained, and his future was assured.

‘Mr Kydd says to stay off work until after the funeral,’ said Shelagh, ‘though to be honest I’ll be very glad to be back at work.’

‘Yes, he’ll have to rely on his junior houseman while you’re away,’ said Leigh with a grin.

They were returning from the registrar’s office three days after Bridget’s death.

‘So that’s over, and I can only thank you again for your kindness and support, Leigh,’ she said, clicking the safety belt as he took the driver’s seat and switched on the ignition.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask you – have you heard any more from our friend Sykes?’ he ventured.

‘Yes, he has sent me a letter and a sympathy card. I hear you gave him short shrift on the phone,’ she answered. ‘He says he won’t come to my home while you’re in charge!’ She did not tell him that Sykes had asked to take her out to dinner.

‘Is Aunt Maura going to stay on with you?’ he asked.

‘Until after the funeral, then she’ll go home, she’s needed there. I’ll miss her a lot.’

‘I’m sure you will. A very special lady, like her sister.’

She switched the conversation to Denise North and her twins. ‘They must be every bit of thirty-six weeks now.’

‘Yes, and her toxaemia is worsening by the day,’ he said. ‘What’s the betting that Harry Kydd will intervene and get them out by caesarean?’

‘Every day they can stay inside her puts on another ounce,’ she answered. ‘But yes, he probably will.’

Outside the little terraced house, he got out and opened the passenger door for her.

‘I won’t come in, Shelagh, if you don’t mind, I’d better get back. Give my love to Maura.’

‘Thanks again for everything, Leigh. Remember me to Tanya and Laurie.’

‘Will do. See you soon, then, dear. Bye for now!’

The hearing at Winchester Magistrates’ Court took only ten minutes. The Reverend Derek Bolt and Mrs Bolt took their places with solicitor Mr Jamieson; a woman clerk recorded the proceedings, and a reporter from the
Everham News
sat in the otherwise empty public gallery. Miss Beryl Johnson was a lonely figure in a plain navy costume and matching hat, and her answers to the questions put to her by the magistrate were so low that she was told to speak up, and then a microphone was brought to her, so that her voice could be heard in court. Mr Bolt’s sworn statement and letters produced by Mr Jamieson, together with Miss Johnson’s admission that she had written them, were considered sufficient evidence to uphold Mr Bolt’s claim of harassment, and a restraining order
was placed on Miss Johnson, banning her from contacting the Revd Bolt in any way for twelve months; if she breached the order, the magistrate warned her that she would have to appear in the Crown Court, and could face a prison sentence.

A photographer was waiting for Miss Johnson when she emerged white-faced from the court, and Mr and Mrs Bolt were also photographed. All three parties declined to comment.

The report on the court case broke in Everham the following day, and all newsagents reported that copies of the
Everham News
had sold out by mid-morning. The whole town was in a turmoil of mixed opinions, and pity for Miss Johnson’s humiliation outweighed support for Mr Bolt, especially among the women. On the following day, a national newspaper carried the story, which became a talking point, with increased sympathy for Miss Johnson; the vicar was considered to have been harsh, not to say cruel, to a lonely woman who had committed no crime, and it was whispered that his wife had put him up to it, and he must therefore be under her thumb – a wimp, not a recommendation for a man of the cloth.

‘One thing about all this, Derek old chap, you’ve gone way ahead of me in the gossip stakes,’ commented Jeremy North wryly. ‘We’re both bastards as far as the women are concerned.’ They were in the vestry, divesting themselves of cassock and surplice. Derek Bolt pulled off the green-and-gold embroidered stole
he had worn at the morning service, and threw it over a chair.

‘Yeah, and I’m a hypocrite into the bargain, preaching a gospel of love while treating a parishioner with calculated cruelty. Daphne hasn’t come out of it well, either. At least your wife gets all the sympathy.’

‘My Iris doesn’t,’ replied Jeremy with a grimace. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘Same here. I suppose that eventually it’ll blow over.’

But the following Monday brought a sequel to the harassment case. Unable to obtain admission to Miss Johnson’s house, a Mrs Mary Whittaker had informed the police who had forced an entry. Miss Johnson was found unconscious in her bed, clasping a framed photograph of the Revd Derek Bolt. A half-empty bottle of paracetamol tablets and a half-bottle of gin were on the bedside table. An ambulance was summoned, and Miss Johnson was rushed to Everham Park Hospital, where a stomach washout was performed, too late to prevent the absorption of the drugs into the bloodstream, but as a casualty officer listened for a heartbeat, her eyelids began to flutter, and a moan issued from her throat. She had lapsed into unconsciousness after taking only half the dose she had intended with half the gin, and was now starting to recover, waking to find herself not in heaven but in hospital, the women’s medical ward, having blood samples taken to assess
liver damage, if any. A psychiatric report had also been requested.

But ill news travels fast, and not always accurately. When the ambulance was seen departing from Angel Close carrying Miss Johnson on a stretcher, a rumour quickly spread in Everham that she was dead. Mrs Pearce from the bakery lost no time in conveying this to the vicarage, though she was startled by the effect it had on the vicar, who groaned aloud and wrung his hands.

‘I’m finished – my life as a priest is finished!’ he said brokenly, and when his wife tried to remonstrate with him, he shouted at her to leave him alone and get out of his sight. It was Mrs Whittaker, who had accompanied Miss Johnson to hospital, who later called at the vicarage with the news of her recovery, whereupon Derek shut himself in his study and fell on his knees in a wild ecstasy of thanksgiving.

One scandal followed another. Two days later the media gleefully disclosed the confession by the government minister John Profumo of his illicit affair with the young model, Christine Keeler, made ten times worse by his having lied to the Commons three months earlier, insisting upon his innocence. Grave pronouncements were made in the editorials of
The Times
and the
Daily Telegraph
, and by senior churchmen, while The Volunteer and other such bastions of public opinion echoed with guffaws at
bawdy jokes about the scandal. And there were men who kept their opinions to themselves, silently thanking their lucky stars that there but for the grace of God …

It was time for the dinner engagement with Paul Sykes, and Shelagh dressed carefully. A silk-jersey dress with a bold flowered print, fashion sandals and a white leather handbag seemed to fit the bill, but then she rejected the sandals for high-heeled red leather shoes, and a handbag to match. A crystal necklace with matching drop earrings and a silvery chiffon shawl completed her image, and she nodded her approval at the mirror: no sad-eyed lady needing to be comforted, but a – what had Leigh McDowall said?
A beautiful, intelligent woman like Dr Hammond
…

She noticed Paul’s start of surprise when she opened the door.

‘Good God, Shelagh, you look stunning.’

‘Thank you. It’s a lovely evening,’ she said with a smile, following him to the car. ‘Where are we going?’

‘I’d thought of somewhere quiet and off the beaten track, like the Badger’s Nest – have you ever been there? We can eat outside in the garden if you like, it’s ideal for a quiet chat.’

She settled herself in the passenger seat, wondering what he had to say that was so important. An apology, perhaps? An explanation? A quiet chat at the Badger’s Nest would no doubt reveal all, and she was resolved to keep an open mind.

Arriving at the pretty cottage that had a kitchen attached at the back, he ordered a bottle of white wine, and took their glasses to an outdoor table.

‘So poor old Profumo got his comeuppance, didn’t he?’ said Paul. ‘Silly chump. He should know that illicit affairs are out for men in high places.’

‘Yes, it must be agony for him and his wife,’ Shelagh replied, remembering their own liaison which her mother had never known about.

‘Agreed. Now, Shelagh, we have to talk. I’ll admit I was furious at the way McDowall spoke to me on the phone, but now I see that he had good reason, and I’m happy for you both.’

Shelagh took a sip of wine and waited for him to continue.

‘It’s become clear to me that you and McDowall have grown much closer – more so than I realised, and he was there to console you after your – your mother’s death, and I’m very sorry about that.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’d have come over straight away, but – er – decided to lie low as long as he was around. And to have a good, quiet talk with you, like now.’

‘So what are we quietly talking about, Paul?’ she asked, taking another sip of wine.

‘Oh, Shelagh, you’re so sweet and understanding, and I quite envy McDowall. But in fact it’s worked out very well. The truth is, you see, that – well, I’ve fallen for Diane in a big way, and she with me, incredible
as that sounds.’ He watched her face closely as she sipped her wine, her face impassive.

‘So, Shelagh, you must be feeling that I—’ He broke off, hardly knowing how to continue. She put down her glass, and faced him squarely.

‘It’s no surprise, Paul. I think I’ve known it all along. Ever since the day of the accident when you first met her.’

‘Really? Oh, my gosh, you were ahead of me, then. Shelagh, I’m so truly glad that you’ve found a better option in McDowall.’

‘You clearly don’t realise, Paul, that Dr McDowall is closely involved with Sister Dickenson. They may be unofficially engaged for all I know. It wasn’t for my sake that he came to the house several times, it was for my mother. She and he had become friends.’

‘Oh – oh, I see,’ he said awkwardly. ‘So you and he aren’t – er – together—’

‘It’s all right, Paul, I’m really pleased for you and Diane.’

‘That’s so sweet of you, Shelagh, you make me feel less of a – the fact is, I’ve never met anyone quite like her – and I can’t believe she feels the same way about me. We hope to announce our engagement soon.’

‘Congratulations, Paul.’

From then on his talk was all in praise of the divine Diane; she thought he sounded like an eighteen-year-old boy in love for the first time.

‘Our marriage will be somewhat dependent on
when she can resume work. There’s a film contract in the offing, with a location in Scotland as soon as she’s fully mobile,’ he went on eagerly. Not a word about his Fellowship of the Royal College of Surgeons, she noted.

‘Tell me, Paul, if I may ask a personal question: is she younger than me?’

‘The answer will surprise you, Shelagh, because in fact she’s a few years older. It’s her natural vitality that keeps her looking so young.’

About ten years older, then, and five years older than you, Shelagh silently calculated. And the roots of the red hair must need redoing at least every three weeks.

Their meal arrived, and she let him carry on enthusing while they ate it, wondering how long the lovely Diane’s infatuation would last when she was back in the world of studios and actors. Would she make him happy, this man who had been her own first and only lover?

‘Of course, she’ll still be known as Diane Devlin rather than Sykes,’ he went on. ‘Our marriage won’t exactly be conventional.’

You bet it won’t, thought Shelagh.

‘And the caravan at Netheredge up for sale – I’ll see that you get your half share, of course – I can’t quite see Diane roughing it at Netheredge in her present state, can you?’

Nor in any other state, thought Shelagh, and
suddenly laughed out loud, so that other diners turned to look at them.

‘Oh, my God, Paul, you’re so funny!’

‘And you’re so incredibly sweet, Shelagh,’ he said, placing a hand over hers on the table. ‘We must always stay friends – you and Diane would get along fine, I know.’

Some hopes, she thought. There did not seem to be much more to say, and after the sun had sunk in the west, the air grew chilly.

‘It’s been a wonderful evening, Shelagh. We’ve got such lot of things sorted, haven’t we? I don’t like to bring it to an end, but—’

‘I’m quite ready to go,’ she said, and he took her arm as they walked back to the car. A strange uneasiness had come over her, though she could not pinpoint the cause of it.

The countryside was silvery and mysterious by the light of a full moon, but she looked eagerly ahead for the lights of Everham. When she saw the hospital, its lights dimmed except in the theatre and Delivery Unit, she found herself longing to be within its walls.

‘Just drop me here, Paul.’

‘What,
here
? Don’t you want to go home? You’re still on compassionate leave, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but I’ve just remembered something. I’ll get out here, Paul – thanks for a great evening, most enlightening – bye!’

She scrambled out of the car, and headed for the
lower corridor with urgent footsteps, her high heels tip-tapping on its stone floor. She broke into a run, and flew up the stairs without waiting to call a lift. She reached the maternity department, hurried along the corridor, past the office, kitchen and utility room, until she reached the theatre annexe and Delivery Room Four: she burst through the double door and faced the scene before her.

On the delivery bed lay Denise North, her legs raised up in lithotomy stirrups. Seated on a stool facing her was Leigh McDowall, gowned and gloved for action. Staff Midwife Marie Burns stood close to him, with the delivery trolley, and Elsie the auxiliary watched, ready to be called upon to fetch and carry. Dr Fisher the paediatrician waited beside two heated cots and a cylinder of oxygen, holding between his lips the thin rubber tube of a mucus extractor to clear the air passages of the newborn.

Leigh McDowall turned his head to see her standing inside the door, wearing a glamorous dress and high-heeled shoes. Her crystal earrings flashed in the shadowless overhead light.

‘Shelagh,’ he said, ‘you’ve come. We’re delivering the North twins, as you can see. Mr Kydd went on holiday yesterday to the Algarve, and David Rowan has been involved in some sort of road accident.’

‘OK, carry on,’ she said. ‘Can you see the vertex?’

‘It’s a breech.’

‘Ah. Well, carry on. Foetal hearts OK?’

‘About a hundred and forty a minute, doctor,’ said Marie Burns.

‘Good. Is the cervix fully dilated? Mustn’t let her push down on a breech otherwise.’

‘I can’t feel a rim. Ah, here we go, I can see a little bottom, and it’s a boy!’

Shelagh stood watching approvingly as he hooked one little ankle down, then the other. The body soon emerged, the cord attached and pulsating.

‘Better do an episiotomy for the head,’ advised Shelagh.

‘This is where I let it hang, right?’ he asked.

‘Yes, if the cord’s pulsating – and keep him warm. Marie, hand Leigh a towel.’

‘Ah, another contraction. All right, Denise, we’re nearly there.’

With firm and steady hands Leigh kept the head flexed, and within a minute the first twin’s head slid smoothly over the perineum, a small baby but who soon gasped in air and began to make sounds in his throat. Dr Fisher stepped forward and took him from McDowall, to transfer him to a cot with a card labelled North Twin I.

Shelagh nodded approval, but then there was a gush of blood from the vagina.

‘We can’t give ergometrine, not while the other’s still in there. Foetal heart, Nurse Burns?’

‘I can hear it, but I can’t count it, doctor.’

Another gush of blood, and a groan from Denise. ‘We could do with having a drip put up, but right now we have to get the other baby out,’ said Shelagh, and asked McDowall to confirm the presenting part, a head or a breech.