A Nurse to Trust Read online

  Daniel looked at his watch. ‘Good Lord, yes. Now, Clare, what about joining me for lunch? George will want to play with our new toy some more and I owe you that after the magnificent breakfast you fed me yesterday.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said simply, ‘as long as you can spare the time.’

  ‘I’ve got to eat,’ he said, ‘and I’ve an hour before my next clinic.’

  They went to a pub a little way along the busy main road, with a tiny garden at the rear, and found a table free. There was a good bar menu.

  ‘I’m starving,’ said Clare. The excitement of seeing the mobile surgery seemed to have given her an appetite. It had been years since she’d looked forward to anything with such pleasure. It opened up a whole new way of life, a firm reminder that she was putting the past behind her.

  ‘Then have one of our local meat and potato pies and salad,’ Dan suggested. ‘Very filling and tasty.’

  ‘Sounds good. I will, thank you.’

  ‘And to drink—wine, or some of our local cider?’

  Clare’s chuckle was almost a giggle. ‘Gosh.’ The schoolgirlish word just popped out. She felt extraordinarily exhilarated. ‘I haven’t had cider for years. I don’t much like bottled cider.’

  ‘You’ve lived too long in London. Our local cider bears no resemblance to the bottled variety—you’ll like it.’

  ‘Is it very strong?’

  ‘Strongish,’ he said with a grin, his kind hazel eyes twinkling. ‘I wouldn’t advise it if you were working, but you can go home and sleep it off.’

  She grinned back at him. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll risk a half.’

  Daniel insisted on walking her home through the churchyard. ‘Just in case you keel over,’ he said, taking her elbow when she stumbled.

  Clare giggled light-headedly. ‘I thought that you said the cider wasn’t very strong,’ she said.

  He chuckled. ‘I was kidding.’

  ‘I hope,’ she replied with mock severity, as they crossed the lane to the gate of number three, ‘that you aren’t planning on having your wicked way with me.’

  A ripple of mixed expressions crossed his face, ending in a dark frown. Suddenly the warm day seemed to grow colder.

  ‘No,’ he said in brittle tones, ‘that’s not on my agenda.’ And he turned on his heel and walked away.

  Clare stared after him, blinking in bewilderment. She’d only meant it as a joke. Perhaps it had been silly and not a PC thing to suggest nowadays even in jest, but she’d never have guessed he’d take it like that. Her cider-befuddled mind couldn’t cope with the problem and after a minute she shrugged and walked up the path to her front door.

  ‘Well, that’s men for you,’ she muttered as she let herself into the house. ‘Unpredictable.’

  She squashed a wave of disappointment. Somehow she hadn’t expected that from the sturdy Dr Davis. She made her way upstairs and lay down on top of the duvet.

  ‘I wonder,’ she murmured to herself as she drifted off to sleep, ‘what’s bugging you, Dr Dan?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  NOW, the day after the first dry run of the mobile surgery, everything seemed back to normal. There had been no mention of Dan’s odd reaction to Clare’s silly remark the previous evening and Dan’s stiffness had soon melted away. Obviously Clare had touched some raw nerve, but if Dan chose not to bring it up again it was clearly best forgotten.

  So Clare sat in the little back garden of number three, sipping her coffee and enjoying the scent of the honeysuckle and the tinkling of water from the tiny fountain as it splashed into the miniature pond. Aunt Marjory’s garden was a real haven, and Clare had taken to having her coffee out there whenever she could.

  How had her godmother managed to pack so much into such a tiny space? A tiny lawn, semicircular flower-beds against the walls, and a herb and salad bed beneath the kitchen window, as well as, of course, the little pool with its attendant statue. It was obviously a garden that had been loved.

  ‘I’ll try to take care of it just as you would,’ Clare murmured. Her godmother’s presence seemed very strong in the garden. ‘Even when I’m working, I’ll make sure that it’s not neglected, and that’s a promise.’

  In a couple of days she would be starting work in the mobile surgery, taking medicine to the remoter parts of Devon and Somerset. It’s almost like missionary work, she thought with wry amusement. Then she thought of Mary Miller and silently admonished herself. This was nothing to be treated lightly. For some people it might literally mean the difference between life and death.

  She heard the phone start to ring through the open kitchen window. Clare sighed. She really must get a cordless handset, she thought. Reluctantly she pulled herself up out of the old-fashioned deckchair which was so incredibly comfortable and went in to answer it.

  Once again it was Dan.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ he said quickly, ‘but would it be possible for me to pop over and see you?’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes, before I go off on my rounds.’

  ‘All right. I’ll have coffee ready.’

  ‘That would be much appreciated.’

  Clare put the phone down and chewed her lip. Dan had sounded preoccupied and oddly formal. Surely it couldn’t be anything to do with her foolish remark, not just when she’d decided it was all over and done with. Her mind seething with curiosity and a little apprehension, she topped up the percolator and filled a plate with coconut cakes which she’d made from a recipe she’d found in one of Aunt Marjory’s cookbooks.

  The doorbell rang a few minutes later.

  Daniel stood on the doorstep, medical case in one hand, looking as all doctors looked when they make house calls, except that he wasn’t wearing a jacket over his pale green shirt. The GPs at the health centre she had worked for in a classy part of London wouldn’t have dreamed of visiting a patient without wearing a jacket.

  The shirt suited him, thought Clare. It brought out the green in his hazel eyes and seemed to enhance his shining brown hair, even where it was touched with grey. He’d had his hair cut, she noticed, but not too short. For some obscure reason that pleased her.

  ‘Do come in,’ she said, trying for a neutral sort of voice.

  She opened the door wide but, remembering their last encounter in the narrow hall, she walked in front of him to the kitchen, leaving him to close the front door.

  ‘Shall we talk in here?’ she asked, pouring coffee as she spoke. ‘Or would you rather sit in the garden?’

  He smiled for the first time. ‘The garden would be great,’ he replied, ‘but it’s so peaceful there that I might drop off.’ He sat down at the table to drink his coffee, and Clare realised how at ease he was in her kitchen. Or was it to him still Aunt Marjory’s kitchen?

  As if answering her thoughts and wanting to reassure her, he said, ‘I like the touches you’ve made in here. You’ve managed to personalise it without spoiling its old-fashioned charm.’

  Clare pushed the plate of cakes toward him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking one and biting into it. ‘Ah, Miss Jessop’s coconut cakes.’

  Just how well had he known her godmother? Clare wondered. Obviously well enough to share cakes and coffee.

  She would have liked to have dug around for more information about her godmother, but remembered that Dan had come to talk to her about something specific and he still had his house calls to make. Yet he didn’t seem to be in any rush now. Was he sparring perhaps, playing for time? Surely nothing had gone wrong with the mobile surgery project, not this close to the start.

  ‘What was it that you wanted to talk to me about?’ she prompted, suddenly anxious.

  He answered her question with another of his own. ‘Have you heard from your solicitor lately?’ he wanted to know.

  The question baffled her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m so sorry—badly put. Let me explain.’ He made a wry face. ‘I received a letter from your solicitor this morning, inf
orming me that I was a minor beneficiary in Miss Jessop’s will. It’s taken a while to come through because the lawyers had to ensure that I could legally accept a gift from a patient. I wonder if you have had a similar missive?’

  Clare looked guiltily at the unopened post lying on the kitchen table. One of them was an official-looking envelope that must be from her solicitor.

  She picked it up. ‘I’ve got a bit slack,’ she said, blushing a little, then adding in a sudden rush of confidence, ‘Maybe it’s having my own home. I feel so secure it’s wonderful. God knows how long it would have taken me to buy my own place at London prices. I’m so grateful to Aunt Marjory for leaving me all this.’

  The wave of her hand included the whole house and the garden. Now, why had she opened up like that? What must he think of her?

  ‘That would please her more than anything,’ Daniel said. He glanced at the solid kitchen clock on the wall. ‘Good Lord, I’ll have to get cracking on my rounds in two minutes.’ His well-shaped mouth turned down at the corners. ‘I meant to keep this brief.’

  It’s a tender mouth, thought Clare, and wondered what it would be like to kiss. She put a hand up to her hot cheek. She spoke hastily to cover her embarrassment.

  ‘Why don’t you come back later, say for a drink…or supper this evening?’ she heard herself say. ‘It’ll give me time to read my solicitor’s letter. Then we’ll sort out whatever needs sorting out.’

  The odds were that he would refuse at such short notice.

  ‘That,’ said Daniel, ‘sounds super. Supper would be terrific. But I can’t manage tonight. How about tomorrow? I finish surgery at seven.’

  ‘Come any time after that,’ said Clare.

  She didn’t immediately open the letter after he’d gone, but wandered into the garden again and sat on the little parapet edging the pool, dabbling a hand in the sparkling water and watching the fish popping in and out of the lilies and reeds. The magic of the garden wrapped round her again and she was content to sit and let her mind wander.

  It was years since she had felt so relaxed. It didn’t even seem to matter that she’d made a little bit of fool of herself in front of Dan. If he’d noticed it he hadn’t made any comment. The kind face and twinkling hazel eyes which had reassured her at her interview were back again when he left. Well, there was nothing wrong in having him to supper, even though she’d only known him properly for a few days. They were colleagues now. It made sense that they should get to know each other properly if they were going to be working closely together. Yes, it would be fun. She would raid Aunt Marjory’s cookbooks again and come up with something special.

  Dan Davis was a man who enjoyed his food—that had been obvious when he had come to breakfast, and again when they had lunched at the Golden Fleece. But, then, there was a lot of him to fill. Yet there was no superfluous fat on him, that had been clear this morning. His green shirt had tucked neatly into the belted waistband of his pale grey trousers. He’d looked cool and fresh, and at the same time professional, a little stiff perhaps because of the letter from the solicitor.

  Clare smiled, recalling their lunch. There’d been nothing stiff about him then. Quite the contrary, he had been totally relaxed and amusing. He had an infectious rich throaty laugh, and she had found herself laughing with him. Yet a few minutes later he had wished her an abrupt goodbye and turned back the way they had come. Would she ever know why?

  She shook her head and gathered her thoughts. She became aware of the official-looking envelope still clasped in her dry hand, and shook off the drops of water from the hand that had been dabbling in the pond and rubbed it on her skirt. Better open the letter and read what it was all about. At least this matter wouldn’t remain a mystery for long.

  She was struggling with the firmly sealed flap when Arthur Hopkinson’s quavery voice from the next door garden called urgently, ‘Clare, can you come? It’s Cath…she’s had a fall!’

  In a flash, Clare was out of her chair and through the back gate to the narrow alleyway that ran behind Church Terrace.

  Arthur’s back gate was unlocked and she let herself in and raced up the narrow path between the uniform rows of vegetables. The kitchen door was wide open and through the open door to the sitting room she could see Arthur bending over the prone form of his wife.

  She was lying with her head on the corner of the brass fender round the fireplace. There was a lot of blood pooling round her head. Arthur was talking to her in jumbled phrases and trying to lift her head. His face was grey and shiny with sweat.

  Any moment now he’s going to join his wife and have a heart attack, thought Clare. She shoved a small fireside chair closer to him and hauled him into it.

  ‘Sit there Arthur, I’ll see to Cath,’ she said firmly.

  She knelt down beside the old lady and took her pulse, expecting it to be erratic and faint. It was steady and remarkably strong for someone with a dicky heart. There was no indication of a heart attack or any sort of recent heart failure, but she was still flat out and there was no reaction when Clare spoke to her.

  She must have simply fallen or tripped over the rug in front of the fireplace. Clare ran her hands over Cath’s arms and legs to establish that no limbs were broken and took her pulse again. It was still strong and steady, stronger and steadier than one would have expected in an old lady of ninety who’d just had a fall. She lifted Cath’s eyelids and examined her pupils. Both looked even and normal, though there was no sign of returning consciousness.

  The bleeding from the cut on the old lady’s temple was profuse, but that seemed to be the only injury she had suffered. Heavy bleeding was typical of all head wounds, Clare reminded herself, even quite superficial ones, so she wasn’t too alarmed.

  She eased Cath’s head off the corner of the fender and wiped away some of the blood with the hem of her full cotton skirt, pressing it directly on the wound for a moment while she considered what to do next. If she could apply a proper pressure pad the bleeding would ease up.

  Clare spoke to Cath again, loudly and close to her ear. She thought that she detected the faintest reaction, but nothing definite.

  Her mind raced as she considered why Cath was still unconscious? A depressed fracture of the skull? Surely not. That would have reflected in her pulse and respirations and both remained steady. Her pupils were equal, which they almost certainly wouldn’t have been were there a depressed fracture.

  The only reason for her unconsciousness appeared to be just the deep cut where her head had struck the fender.

  Could it be shock that was preventing her from regaining consciousness? She didn’t seem particularly cold and clammy, but there was always a degree of shock in any accident.

  OK, next move. Make patient as warm and comfortable as possible and stem the bleeding.

  Clare carefully eased Cath’s head up further from the fender, grabbed a seat cushion from the other fire-side chair with her free hand and slid it into place under the old lady’s head and shoulders. She tugged the heavy velvet tablecloth off the round table, and wrapped it round the inert body.

  Now for something to form into a pressure pad. Unfortunately there was nothing suitable that she could see and she couldn’t ask Arthur to do anything. He looked worse than Cath, who at that moment, to Clare’s relief, began to show signs of coming round.

  Clare scrambled to her feet and dashed into the cottage’s tiny kitchen. A moment later she came back with a paper kitchen roll and a couple of teatowels. She tore off several squares of kitchen roll, folded them into a thick pad and pressed it firmly to the cut.

  ‘Ow, that hurts,’ mumbled Cath, putting a shaky hand up to her head as Clare applied the pressure. Cath’s eyes flickered open and she blinked and frowned and tried to struggle up.

  ‘Stay put for a minute Cath, you’ve had a fall,’ explained Clare. ‘You’ve cut your head on the fender, but the bleeding will soon ease up. Now, do you feel strong enough to hold this pad in place while I have a look at Arthur?’

>   ‘What’s wrong with Arthur?’ asked the old lady sharply, the quiver gone out of her voice.

  ‘He came to fetch me when you fell. I think it gave him a bit of a shock, seeing the blood.’

  To Clare’s amazement, Cath actually produced a weak grin. ‘Hates blood, Arthur does…always makes him faint. He’ll be all right in a minute when he’s got over the shock.’

  As though on cue, Arthur groaned and opened his eyes. ‘Cath,’ he mumbled. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s come round,’ Clare reassured him. ‘She has a nasty cut on her forehead but nothing worse that I can see. It’ll need some stitches and the doctor may want X-rays done to make sure that there’s no other damage.’

  She took Arthur’s pulse. It was fast and erratic, but quite strong. His face was less grey and his faded blue eyes clear.

  ‘You’ll do,’ she said. ‘Now, don’t either of you move. I’ll phone the surgery and ask one of the doctors to come and see you.’

  ‘Ask for Dr Dan,’ said Arthur.

  ‘He may still be out on his rounds,’ Clare said. ‘He only just left me. But I’ll see what I can do.’

  She returned to the kitchen where the phone was mounted on the wall and made the call.

  While they waited, Clare continued to apply pressure to Cath’s temporal wound until the bleeding slowed to a trickle.

  ‘Have you got any plaster dressings?’ she asked Cath. ‘This is going to need stitching, but a dressing will keep it clean and hold it together for the time being.’

  ‘In the drawer in the kitchen. Arthur can get it, he knows where it is.’

  ‘Do you feel up to it, Arthur?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Course I do. It’s only the blood, makes me quite squeamish.’ He heaved himself out of the chair.

  The doorbell rang while he was in the kitchen. ‘It’ll be the doc,’ he called. ‘I’ll get it.’

  In a moment Dan appeared. He paused for a fraction of a second in the doorway, raised his eyebrows slightly, then crossed the room in a couple of long strides and crouched beside the old lady.