are,’ Kirsty said, almost cordially. ‘But don’t you think dying tonight when Susie’s come all this way to see you might be just a touch selfish?’
There could have been a choking sound from the window, but she wasn’t sure.
‘Selfish?’ Angus wheezed and leaned back on his pillows. ‘I’m not… I’m not selfish.’
‘If you let Dr Cameron give you oxygen then you’d certainly live till morning. You might well live for another year or more.’
‘Leave me be, girl. I won’t die tonight. No such luck.’
‘Your lips are blue. That’s a very bad sign.’
‘What would you know?’
‘I told you. I’m a doctor. I’m just as qualified as Dr Cameron.’
He gasped a bit more, but his attention was definitely caught. The veil of apathy had lifted and he seemed almost indignant. ‘If my lips were blue then Jake would be telling me,’ he managed.
‘Jake’s told you,’ Jake muttered from his window, and glanced at his watch. And did his best to suppress a sigh. And went back to staring out the window.
There was a moment’s silence while Angus fought for a retort. ‘So my lips are blue,’ he muttered at last. ‘So what?’
Kirsty considered. Back home she worked in a hospice and she was accustomed to dealing with frail and frightened people. She could sense the fear in Angus behind the bravado.
Maybe he wasn’t ready to die yet.
Another glance at Jake—but it seemed he was leaving this to her.
‘Let us give you oxygen,’ she said, wondering how she was suddenly taking over from an Australian doctor, with a patient she didn’t know, on his territory—but Jake’s body language said go right ahead. ‘And let us give you some pain relief,’ she added, guessing instinctively that if he was refusing oxygen, he’d also be refusing morphine. ‘We can make a huge difference. Not only in how long you’re likely to live but also in how you’re feeling.’
‘How can you be knowing that for sure?’ he muttered.
‘Angus, I have a patient back home in America,’ she said softly. ‘He’s been on oxygen now for the last ten years. It’s given him ten years he otherwise wouldn’t have had—ten years where he’s had fun.’
‘What fun can you have if you’re tied to an oxygen cylinder?’
‘Plenty,’ she said solidly. ‘Cyril babysits his grandson. He gardens. He—’
‘How can he garden?’ Angus interrupted.
And Kirsty thought, Yes! Interest.
‘He wheels his cylinder behind him wherever he goes,’ she told him. ‘He treats it just like a little shopping buggy. I’ve watched him weeding his garden. He used a kneepad ’cos his knees hurt, but he doesn’t even think about the tiny oxygen tube in his nostril.’
‘He’s not like me.’
‘Jake says you have pulmonary fibrosis. He’s just like you.’
‘I haven’t got a grandson,’ Angus said, backed into a corner and still fighting.
‘No, but you’ll have a grand-niece or-nephew in a few weeks,’ she said with asperity. ‘I do think it’d be a shame not to make the effort to meet him.’
The effect of her words was electric. Angus had been slumped on the bed, his entire body language betokening the end. Now he stiffened. He stared up at her, disbelief warring with hope. The whistling breathing stopped. The colour drained from his face and Kirsty thought maybe his breathing had totally stopped.
But just when she was getting worried, just when Jake took a step forward and she knew that he’d had the same thought as she had—heart attack or stroke—Angus started breathing again and faint colour returned to his face.
‘A grand-nephew.’ He stared up, disbelief warring with hope. ‘Rory’s baby?’
‘Susie’s certainly pregnant with Rory’s child.’
‘Kenneth would have said—’
‘Kenneth—Rory’s brother—doesn’t want to know Susie,’ Kirsty told him, trying to keep anger out of her voice. ‘He’s made it clear he wants nothing to do with us. So we came out here hoping that the Uncle Angus who Rory spoke of with affection might show a little affection to Rory’s child in return.’ She steadied then and thought about what to say next. And decided. Sure, this wasn’t her patient—this wasn’t her hospice—but she was going in anyway. ‘And you can’t show affection by dying,’ she told him bluntly. ‘So if you have an ounce of selflessness in you, you’ll accept Dr Cameron’s oxygen—and maybe a dose of morphine in addition for comfort—you’ll say thank you very much, and you’ll get a good night’s sleep so you can meet your new relative’s mother in the morning.’
But he wasn’t going so far yet. He was still absorbing part one. ‘Rory’s wife is pregnant.’ It was an awed whisper.
‘Yes.’
‘And I need to live if I’m to be seeing the baby.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not lying?’
‘Why would she lie?’ Jake demanded, wheeling back to the bed. ‘Angus, can I hook you up to this oxygen like the lady doctor suggests, or can I not?’
Angus stared at him. He stared at Kirsty.
His old face crumpled.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, please.’
Jake had an oxygen canister and a nasal tube hooked up in minutes. He gave Angus a shot of morphine and Angus muttered about interfering doctors and interfering relatives from America and submitted to both.
Within minutes his breathing had eased and his colour had improved. They chatted for a little—more time while Kirsty noticed Jake didn’t so much as glance at his watch again—and finally they watched in relief as his face lost its tension. He’d been fighting for so long that he was exhausted.
‘We’ll leave you to sleep,’ Jake told him, and the old man smiled and closed his eyes.
‘Thank God for that,’ Jake said softly, and ushered Kirsty out the door. ‘A minor miracle. Verging on a major one.’
‘You really care,’ she said, and received a flash of anger for her pains.
‘What do you think?’
There was only the matter of Susie’s omelette remaining.
‘I can do it,’ Kirsty muttered as Jake led her down to the castle’s cavernous kitchen. Somewhat to her relief, Deirdre’s love of melodrama and kitsch hadn’t permeated here. There was a sensible gas range, plus a neat little microwave.
