than before.
‘You tell me— Ah, yes, Mrs Bailey. It’s Robert Ryder—I wonder if you could do me a favour and keep an eye on Jane for me? No, it was quite unexpected—yes, I know it’s a bank holiday— Oh, I’m sorry.’ He sighed and ran his hand wearily over his face. ‘Forget it. I’m sorry to disturb you. Have a good evening with the family. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
He cradled the phone in his hand and turned back to Jane.
‘She’s got her family for the day. Look, I’ve just got one or two people I’d like to see, then if Frankie wouldn’t mind I could take you home and sort things out.’
He turned to Frankie, a weary entreaty in his eyes. ‘Will that be all right?’
She smiled faintly. ‘I did say I wouldn’t let you down,’ she reminded him. ‘If you take your bleeper so I can get you in a real emergency I’m sure I can cope.’
He smiled, a tired, grateful smile that didn’t quite reach those weary eyes, and left the room.
‘So, young lady,’ Mary said quietly, ‘what’s it all about this time?’
‘Oh, Mum’s latest boyfriend—he and his chums were all sitting about the place doing drugs. It makes me feel sick to see them all giggling and talking rubbish. It’s just such a waste of time.’
She rolled her eyes, and Frankie quickly stifled a smile. It was no laughing matter, but the girl seemed at least to have the issue of drug-taking in perspective.
Frankie supposed Jane’s father should be grateful for small mercies …
THE rest of that afternoon and evening was relatively quiet. The A and E staff called Frankie once about an elderly lady who had had a fall and broken her hip, and it was decided to admit her for surgery the following day.
After that there seemed to be nothing to do, so armed with her bleeper Frankie made her way back to the doctors’ residence and to the room that for now, at least, was home.
She hadn’t unpacked property the night before, so now she opened her suitcases and put the things away in the drawers, hung up her few dresses and put the cases under the bed. Her books she set out on the shelf above the scarred and battered table, and she was done.
Standing back, she surveyed the room critically and sighed. There wasn’t much to show for twenty-eight years, she thought with a touch of melancholy, and then banished it ruthlessly. Pictures were what she needed, she decided—pictures and perhaps some flowers to brighten up the dismal little cell. Maybe a pot plant.
She went and made herself a cup of tea in the communal kitchen, added a kettle to the list of necessities and curled up against her pillows with a book.
She couldn’t concentrate. All she could see was her new boss’s weary eyes, and osteomyelitis simply couldn’t handle the competition.
She put the book down.
So, he was divorced—and living alone, if he’d had to ring someone to look after his daughter. What a waste, she thought, and then chastised herself for making assumptions. Maybe he liked being alone?
And pigs flew. Nobody liked being alone. Sometimes it was better than an existing bad relationship, but given the choice she imagined most people would choose a good relationship over none at all.
Given the choice. Sometimes, of course, one wasn’t given the choice. She wouldn’t be alone by choice, but fate had played dirty tricks on her and she had ended up alone, in this dismal little room—
She snorted in disgust. The room was temporary, just until she had convinced Mr Ryder that it would be a good idea to take her on permanently. Then she’d get herself a nice little flat and start acquiring some little bits and pieces.
If Mr Ryder took her on.
She shook her head. ‘Mr Ryder’ was so formal. She wondered if he would expect her to call him that, or if ‘sir’ would do …!
Robert.
She tried the name, and decided it suited him. Solid, dependable, utterly trustworthy. No frills or flounces, just a good, honest name that could have been made for him.
She wondered if he resented the responsibilities that had been thrust on him, and decided that even if he did he would never admit it, not even to himself.
Her brother had resented the responsibility of his younger sister. He loved her, but providing her with a home for the past ten years had taken its toll of their relationship. And now his wife was on the scene …
With a sigh she picked up her book again and tried to read, but her eyelids were drooping. She took off her skirt, slipped under the quilt and settled down for a rest. She wouldn’t sleep for long. Inevitably her bleeper would squawk and she would have to get up again.
Her breathing slowed, her body quickly adapting to rest. After years of practice it had learned to snatch sleep when it was offered, and cat-napping was a gift she treasured. Within seconds, she was asleep.
Robeert knuckled the sleep from his eyes with one hand, the other clutching the receiver as he struggled to cast aside the dream. ‘Have you called Dr Bradley?’ Hell, even saying her name made it worse—
‘Yes, she’s with the patient now. She asked if I could contact you and get you to come in. I’m sorry.’
Robert sighed. ‘I’ll be right over,’ he promised, and throwing the bedclothes off he pulled on his clothes and went into his daughter’s room.
‘Are you going out?’ she mumbled.
‘Yes—sorry. Will you be all right?’
‘Mmm.’
He dropped a kiss on her cheek, ran downstairs and picked up his jacket and keys on the way out of the door. As he drove the short distance to the hospital, he ran the case through his mind again.
It was the man with the damaged lower leg, the one with the old unhealed fracture who had been hit sideways by a car the night before. They had operated just before lunch and put a fixator on the tibia to support the fractures externally, but the leg had swollen and was now apparently showing symptoms of compartment syndrome, where the sheath surrounding each of the muscles refused to allow sufficient swelling and so caused severe constriction to the muscles and underlying tissues, with resulting serious consequences if they were not rapidly decompressed.
He would require a minor operation called a fasciotomy, literally a slit cut in each of the muscle sheaths to allow for the swelling—assuming that Frankie had got it right.
Dr Bradley. He must remember to call her that. The temptation to call her Frankie was mixed up with all sorts of other forbidden temptations that he didn’t even dare consider except in his dreams—and they, he thought disgustedly, should be censored.
He turned into the hospital car park, pulled up in his usual space and headed for the ward. She was there, in the office with the night sister, her head thrown back and a delicious, deep
