A Nurse to Trust Page 7

  ‘May I borrow your towel to dry my face?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ Daniel replied.

  The storm, he reflected, as he struggled with the last buttons, had been a gift from heaven. It had taken care of those first few minutes after her arrival that he secretly dreaded every morning. It had been the same since his church vigil in the early hours those weeks before. The next day he had woken squirming at the thought of what he had done and wondering how could he face her after he’d made such a fool of himself. The fact that she was quite unaware of his ridiculous behaviour hadn’t made it any easier.

  Even allowing for the heat and excitement of that day and their mutual confessions prior to the event, it hadn’t diminished his embarrassment.

  He was a doctor and a man of science. He was also a down-to-earth divorcee of forty, not a young romantic lead in a play or film wearing his heart on his sleeve, lounging around on street corners in the hope of glimpsing the girl of his dreams.

  Anyway, Clare wasn’t the girl of his dreams. He no longer had those sorts of dreams. She was a colleague, the woman he worked beside day in and day out, already seeming to be familiar, and to be trusted implicitly.

  He wrestled the last button free and stood up. ‘Now, let’s get you out of this wet coat,’ he said, moving behind her to lift it off her shoulders.

  His hands brushed against her as he drew the coat from her shoulders and a tremor of awareness trickled down her arms. Her nostrils flared and she just stopped herself from inhaling sharply.

  ‘Phew! Thank goodness for that,’ she said flexing her shoulders. ‘It’s supposed to be made of the latest lightweight waterproof material, but it still weighs a ton when it’s wet.’

  Dan glanced at the coat’s label. ‘It says it’s showerproof here. I think there’s a difference.’

  ‘Well, it’s never been this wet before. I only bought it just before I left London.’

  ‘Especially for the wilds of the West Country,’ Daniel suggested. ‘But you didn’t reckon on our wild and unpredictable climate.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Clare replied with a laugh, praying that he hadn’t noticed the unexpected tremble. ‘Though don’t forget that I was born on the Isle of Wight, and know a lot about the south coast and its climate.’

  ‘Do you miss London and the bright lights?’ Daniel asked as he hung her raincoat on a peg beside his own plastic mac. There were hooks on the door of the closet that also served as a cloakroom, which was slotted between the staff loo and their two rooms. The designers hadn’t wasted a millimetre of space.

  Hadn’t he asked her before about missing London? Clare thought.

  ‘Not one little bit,’ she said aloud. ‘Well, perhaps occasionally the theatres and the number of different shows on offer.’

  ‘Do you like the theatre?’

  ‘Yes. I went as often as I could, but the price of tickets in London is horrendous.’ She rubbed her still numb fingers together.

  It seemed quite natural when Daniel took her hands in his and massaged them. She gave herself up to the warmth of his strong fingers, kneading life back into her own cold digits.

  ‘There are a few good little theatres in this part of the world,’ he said. ‘Sometimes they even get previews of shows before they go on to London. Of course, they’re not on the doorstep as they are in the metropolis, but they’re usually good value and worth an hour’s drive for a decent evening out.’ He hesitated, then added casually, ‘If you like I could take you to one some time. See a play and have a meal. Make an evening of it maybe.’

  He gave a final rub to her fingers and slowly let go of her hands. ‘Is that better?’ he asked softly.

  Clare smiled. ‘Much, thank you. And, yes, I’d love to go to the theatre. And I think we can even chance a meal, too.’

  Daniel smiled back. ‘Then it’s a date,’ he said, then corrected himself quickly, ‘I mean, it’s agreed.’

  The wind and rain and chilliness after the heatwave didn’t deter patients. There were half a dozen people already waiting when they reached their first stop, in the car park of a church hall in the pretty village of Middle on the Moor. The name was quite self-explanatory as it was sited almost exactly in the middle of Exmoor.

  It had a wide stream running through the centre, with willow trees bending in the wind and trailing their branches in the water. The stream was crossed by a hump-backed bridge just wide enough for the surgery to negotiate. There was a homely looking pub with a grey slab roof half-hidden by moss just across the road from the hall. Beside it was The Tea Parlour, with small square windows with draped net curtains and potted geraniums on the sills and the glow of orange lights behind them. Even in the rain it looked inviting.

  ‘You can get a lovely cuppa in there,’ George said, peering out through the rain-streaked windows as he and Daniel manipulated controls to open up the surgery.

  ‘Tea or coffee,’ he added, ‘and melt-in-the-mouth scones with home-made jam and cream.’

  Clare, busy spreading paper sheets on the treatment couch, closed her eyes and gave a huge sigh. ‘I could kill for a cup of coffee,’ she said, ‘hot and sweet and creamy.’

  ‘I thought you were a black-coffee lady,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Not today,’ she replied. ‘Today I feel sweet and creamy.’

  And you look sweet and creamy, thought Daniel, then, squashing the thought, he said briskly, ‘Well, we’ve got work to do, but if surgery finishes in good time, coffee and scones all round on me. Now, George, let’s open up for business.’

  Their last patient was a woman in her early thirties who arrived while Daniel was seeing the final patient on his list. She had long blonde hair and dark blue eyes. She was naturally beautiful, Clare thought as she wished her good morning and asked for her name, but her beauty was currently masked beneath a red, slightly bloated face and dark circles under her eyes.

  ‘Phylippa Jordan,’ the woman replied in a low nervous voice. ‘Can I register here, or do I have to go into the health centre to do that?’

  Clare smiled reassuringly. ‘You can do it here,’ she confirmed. ‘We’re an extension of the health centre. Are you on holiday?’

  ‘No. I moved here a few weeks ago, but I haven’t had a chance to register. I’ve got a car, but can’t bring myself to drive at the moment, and I didn’t realise that there wasn’t a bus service into Trewellyn. The estate agents I bought the house through didn’t tell me.’

  ‘I bet they didn’t,’ said Clare, knowing that the sale of some moorland houses hung fire because of that fact. ‘Now, if I may have a few details, I’ll register you as a temporary resident until we receive your records from your previous doctor. Then I’ll arrange for Dr Davis to see you. He won’t be long.’

  Clare filled in details of Phylippa Jordan’s previous and current addresses, date of birth and her GP’s name and address, then asked, ‘Would you like to give me an idea what you want to see the doctor about, or would you rather wait and speak to him? It’s simply that if he wants to examine you I may need to get a few things ready.’

  Phylippa shrugged and said dispiritedly, ‘Well, I should think that was obvious. It’s this.’ She touched her swollen, discoloured face.

  ‘Has it happened suddenly, this swelling?’ asked Clare.

  ‘Not exactly. I thought it was beginning to look fatter about a week ago, but it’s really come up in the last couple of days. And I feel so awful. Actually, I haven’t been feeling very well for months. I’ve been sluggish and nervy, which isn’t like me at all. And I suddenly realised that I hadn’t had a period for two or three months. What with the move and everything I’ve only just noticed—not that I’ve been very regular for ages.’

  She sighed heavily and leaned on the sill fronting the reception window to Clare’s office. She looked very weary.

  ‘I split up with my partner six months ago and thought that moving to the country from Manchester would give me a new lease of life. But instead I…’ Her eyes filled with tears.
‘But instead I feel a damn sight worse. I’m fat and lumpy.’ She undid her raincoat. ‘Look, you’d think that I was pregnant.’

  Clare leaned forward and saw that, indeed, Phylippa’s abdomen was swollen and distended, but to her practised eye Phylippa didn’t look pregnant, just pot-bellied. She also noticed that her arms were as thin as sticks and there were several bruises on them.

  Alarm bells began to clang in the back of her head. She’d seen these signs and heard of these symptoms before. But why hadn’t this apparently intelligent woman done something about it before now? Surely her previous doctor must have noticed that something was wrong.

  Clare let herself out of her office and into the waiting area and took Phylippa’s arm. ‘Come and sit down,’ she suggested, ‘while we’re waiting for Dr Davis. Tell me, when did you last see your GP in Manchester?’

  It had been over a year ago, and it hadn’t been exactly her GP. It was a huge practice and she’d rarely seen the same doctor twice. She’d had a series of headaches which she’d thought had been from tension because she and her partner had been going through a bad patch. The doctor she’d seen had prescribed tranquillisers and a short course of mild painkillers. Eventually the headaches had eased off and she’d got on with her life.

  Daniel came out of his surgery at that moment, giving an arm to the elderly man he had been examining. He nodded pleasantly to Phylippa and apologised for keeping her waiting. ‘I’ll just be another moment,’ he said, and turned to Clare.

  ‘There are several prescriptions to be made up for Mr Dunlop,’ he explained in a low voice. ‘When you’ve done them, ask George to see the old boy back across the lane. He lives next to The Tea Parlour.’ He turned back to the new patient. ‘And now…?’

  ‘Jordan, Phylippa Jordan, Miss.’ Phylippa sounded confident enough, but she gave Clare a beseeching glance.

  Clare gave her hand a comforting squeeze. ‘Tell Dr Davis everything that you’ve told me,’ she said.

  Half an hour later Daniel and Clare sat down to have coffee and scones, which George had fetched the moment Miss Jordan had left. Then, with his usual discretion, he had retired to the driver’s cabin while they talked over the patients they had seen.

  Most cases had been common medical conditions needing straightforward treatment. Several of the patients they had seen in previous weeks had come for check-ups. No one had presented with any unusual diagnostic problems until Phylippa Jordan.

  ‘So, what are your thoughts about our Miss Jordan?’ Daniel asked, neatly licking cream from the corners of his wide mouth with the tip of his tongue.

  Clare spread jam and cream on a warm scone. ‘I think,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘everything points to Cushing’s syndrome. Red, moon face, spindly arms and legs, grossly distended abdomen, missed periods and extreme lethargy. But, of course, you can’t make a definite diagnosis until she’s had tests.’

  ‘Yes, she has all the classic signs and symptoms. There doesn’t seem much doubt about it being Cushing’s. But until she’s seen an endocrinologist and had scans and tests done we won’t know for sure. That’s what I told Miss Jordan. She’d heard of Cushing’s, but knew little about it.’

  Daniel frowned and pulled a face.

  ‘All I could do for her today was prescribe large doses of vitamins and the mild tranquillisers, as you saw. She badly needs both. I explained that they might help a bit whilst we’re getting her condition confirmed. I tried to reassure her that when we know that, we can start doing something positive about it.’

  ‘Did she ask, or did you tell her, anything about surgery?’

  ‘I mentioned the possibility of surgery, but stressed that if the cause was a pituitary tumour, it might be reduced by irradiation and followed up with hormone treatment, without the need for surgery. I felt that she had enough to get on with without worrying about an operation.’

  He reached out for another scone. ‘I know I shouldn’t,’ he said defensively, ‘but these really are fantastic, and I’m starving. I missed out on breakfast this morning.’

  ‘To return to Phylippa Jordan. Remind me to contact Ted Mustard at the Royal in Exeter directly after we get back. I want to speak to him personally. We mustn’t let the grass grow under our feet on this one.’

  ‘Exeter’s a long way for her to go,’ Clare said, scribbling in her notebook. ‘She’s got a car but she’s afraid to use it. That’s why she came to us instead of going to the centre.’

  ‘Isn’t there anyone who could take her?’

  Clare shook her head. ‘She hasn’t been here long enough to make friends, and seems to have kept herself to herself. She’s embarrassed to go out because of the way she looks. The cottage she lives in is outside the village—a bit isolated, I understand.’

  Daniel drank some coffee. ‘The ambulance service is sticky about crossing county boundaries, in spite of our new arrangements. It’s not an emergency and she’s pretty mobile, but I’ll look into it. But I think she’ll have to fork out for a taxi. Or, better still, a private ambulance. At least she can afford it.’

  Clare was surprised. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘She’s the top graphic artist for Humble Pye magazine. She does the main cartoon page feature.’

  ‘Oh!’ exclaimed Clare. “‘Humble Pye, that eats everything but humble pie.” It’s been a top seller for ages now. Well, as you say, I shouldn’t think a taxi fare to Exeter would make much of a dent in her sort of income.’ She frowned as she finished the last of her coffee.

  ‘But you’re still not happy about her,’ said Daniel, seeing the expression on her face.

  Clare shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry for her. She’s ill and in a strange place without friends.’ And has just split up with her partner, she might have added.

  It had suddenly occurred to her how closely Phylippa Jordan’s life over the last year resembled her own before she had left London.

  They had both run away from big cities and taken refuge in the quiet countryside, perhaps hoping to be reborn. Phylippa was almost a kindred spirit, except that in her own case the destination had been arranged for her through her inheritance. And she hadn’t, thank God, been ill. Poor Phylippa, however, had more or less stuck a pin in the map and landed in Middle on the Moor. And she was very ill indeed.

  Dan leaned forward from his perch on the stool. ‘Don’t look so sad, Clare. You can’t take everyone’s problems to heart. You know, we are always being warned in medicine and nursing not to get too involved with patients. We have so many gut-wrenching decisions to make. Get too attached to someone and it can cloud one’s judgement. It’s a sensible rule.’

  ‘Rules are sometimes made to be broken,’ Clare said defiantly, all geared up to do battle.

  ‘That’s for sure,’ replied Daniel mildly, with a slight smile. Much to her surprise, he added, ‘So what do you think we can do to help?’

  ‘Well, it’s not very clear in my mind yet, but I think she would appreciate company when she goes to Exeter, even if she goes by ambulance. Though I think an even better idea would be if I take her in my car. Much more friendly than an impersonal ambulance, however good the team are.’

  ‘And you would be prepared to do that?’ asked Daniel.

  Clare nodded. ‘Yes, but it will mean having a day off, perhaps two if she isn’t fit enough to return the same day and we have to stay over in Exeter. And that’ll be down to you, Daniel.’

  ‘You’ve really taken to this woman, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Strange, isn’t it? Occasionally you meet someone and like them on sight and feel tuned in to them.’

  Dan nodded and said carefully, ‘I know the feeling. As for you having a day or two off, I don’t see any problems. Let’s say it’s work-related, which it is. I’ll get somebody from the centre to fill in. Phylippa Jordan’s need is greater than mine.’ He gave her a long, appraising look. ‘You know, Clare, I think you’re the most warm-hearted woman I’ve ever known.’

  Larry had said that to her
once, she recalled later that night while lying in bed and waiting for sleep to come. Too warm-hearted and too giving, he’d meant. But she couldn’t help herself. It was her nature and she didn’t regret for one minute having offered to go with Phylippa to the hospital. And thanks to Daniel’s efforts and persuasive methods, the appointment had been tied up when they’d returned to the centre and he’d spoken to Ted Mustard, his endocrinologist friend.

  Clare had been able to phone Phylippa to tell her that her appointment was fixed for a week’s time. ‘And if you would like company,’ she added rather diffidently, ‘I’d be happy to take you in my car.’

  There had been quite a long silence and Clare had wondered if she’d been too pushy. After all, they’d only met that day. Perhaps Phylippa would have preferred to be independent.

  But after a few seconds of nose blowing and sniffling, Phylippa had replied, ‘Sorry about that,’ she’d said. ‘I do seem to weep at the drop of a hat these days. I’d like to take you up on your offer, please. You’ve been so kind, both you and Dr Davis. He was so patient with me.’

  She had evidently still been fighting back tears. ‘It’ll be wonderful to have someone with me. I was dreading going alone.’

  ‘All part of the mobile surgery service,’ Clare had joked.

  ‘And the moon’s made of green cheese,’ Phylippa had riposted, with a refreshing show of spirit. ‘Thank you anyway.’

  Clare looked at the moonlight filling her window with silver.

  Green cheese or humble rock, it served its purpose. She was going to help somebody in need and it felt good. That was all that mattered when you came down to it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CLARE felt slightly guilty about involving Dan in her goodwill mission to escort Phylippa Jordan to Exeter for her appointment with the endocrinologist.

  Yet he had agreed to it without fuss, although it might mean more work for him. If they couldn’t get somebody to fill in for her on the day, he would have to give injections and change the dressings on ulcerated legs and do all the things that she normally attended to. But he hadn’t been in the least perturbed when she had pointed this out.