forehead.
‘Surely time, and perhaps the experience of those like Aisha, will overcome those fears,’ he said, wanting to see Gemma Murray smile again.
‘I keep hoping that’s the case,’ she said.
Yusef nodded, although the doubt in her voice puzzled him. Everything he had learned about this woman and the centre she had set up built a picture of someone who really cared not only about her patients but about treating them with respect for their culture and heritage. As for fear, how could she think the patients might fear her when he had seen at first hand her kindness to the young couple, her empathy and understanding as she’d delivered their child?
He watched her cross the hall, her mind no doubt on her patient, but as she passed the front door it opened and another young woman, also from her looks Somali, came bursting in.
‘Aisha?’ she asked, and Gemma Murray, for although introductions hadn’t been completed Yusef knew it must be her, replied.
‘Sahra, I was about to call you. Aisha’s in there,’ she said, pointing to the room, ‘with her husband and new son. Will you talk to them, Sahra, and sort out what’s best to do for both of them now? This is Mr Akkedi, our benefactor. I have to talk to him but I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’
She led the way towards the back of the house and Yusef followed her, then looked with distaste at the collection of old chairs that surrounded an equally old Formica table.
‘You do not use the money for some decent furniture?’ he asked, then realised his mistake for the woman had turned back towards him with a frown.
‘New tables and chairs for the kitchen or an ultrasound machine—there’s no choice, you know. Actually, a new table and chairs would cost much less but there’s always something more important. Would you like a coffee?’
He glanced at the tin of instant coffee on the kitchen bench and gave an inward shudder, although he’d drunk the same brand when he’d been working in Africa, and had survived.
‘No, thank you.’
A man who only drank real coffee, Gemma surmised. He was reminding her more and more of her grandfather! Well, that was too bad! She put on the kettle, explaining as she did so that she needed caffeine, and needed it now!
‘The young woman, Aisha, was a patient?’ the man asked, and she sighed, poured boiling water over the coffee powder, added sugar and sat down.
‘Aisha came to us early in her pregnancy. She knew her delivery might be difficult and we discussed all options, including Caesarean.’
She took a sip of coffee and risked another look at the man, who was now sitting cautiously on the edge of a chair across the table from her. A table without mock orange flowers to brighten it or perfume the room.
‘You spoke to her in her own language. Do you know Somalia?’ she asked him, thinking she might have less to explain if he’d been in the country.
‘I worked there in a refugee camp for some years,’ he said, surprising her so much the coffee went down the wrong way and she coughed and snorted.
‘I am dressed for business today,’ he said, ultra-cool but reading the cause of her surprise with ease. ‘Neither should you judge by appearances!’
‘Of course,’ Gemma managed realising she’d been put firmly in her place. ‘But I asked because I wondered if you knew much of their customs and beliefs, which obviously you would. Perhaps not the women, though. They want big families, many children…’
‘And they worry that a Caesar will prevent them having as many as they want?’
Gemma nodded.
‘Not all of them, but some. Perhaps that’s why I’ve seen little of Aisha lately, why I feel I’ve failed her.’
‘She came to you when she needed help, that is not failure.’ He sounded so stern she had to look at him again, although she’d been trying to avoid doing that, as looking at him was causing some very strange reactions in her body.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Of course so. You cannot make patients come to you!’
‘You know this?’
‘I am a surgeon—or was a surgeon. Working with refugees, you try to help wherever you can and whoever you can, but you cannot help those who do not wish to be helped.’
The dark eyes held shadows of pain so deep Gemma wondered just what horrors he must have seen, but every instinct told her he was a very private man and she shouldn’t—couldn’t—pry.
‘Is it because of your work with the refugees that you have put so much money into our centre?’
‘That, and other reasons,’ he said, his voice suggesting he was still lost in memory.
Fortunately, Sahra appeared at that moment.
‘I will take Aisha and her baby home to my place. My mother will take care of them both and if they are there and either of them have problems I will take them to the hospital.’
‘Fantastic,’ Gemma told her, then turned to her visitor. This is Sahra. She, too, is from Somalia but has been here longer, going to school then university and getting her nursing and specialist midwifery qualifications, so as well as translating for those of us who find it hard to learn the language, she understands the best ways to help the women.’
The stranger stood up and held out his hand.
‘Sheikh Yusef Akkedi,’ he said, and to Gemma’s amazement, the usually undemonstrative Sahra simply took his hand, sank low into a curtsey and kissed his fingers.
‘But you are famous, Your Highness,’ she said, still on her knees. ‘My family get papers from home, we read of you and see your name, learn of your elevation to be the leader of your country. I did not recognise you immediately—you have no beard now.’
She released his hand and put her own hand to her cheek, then, even through her dark skin, Gemma saw her blush as the visitor helped her to her feet.
‘I am honoured to have met you,’ Sahra added, then hurried out the door, almost falling over herself in her confusion.
Confusion resounded in Gemma’s mind and body.
‘I’d better check on the couple and the baby but I’ll be right back,’ she told the man—a sheikh? A highness?
She’d heard of the incredible wealth of sheikhs, but Sahra curtseying like that—is that how she should have been treating him?
Gemma followed Sahra, needing time to sort out why this man’s status should come as such a shock to her. Surely she wasn’t worried about who donated money. It didn’t matter as long as the centre could continue its work.
Aisha was on her feet, cradling the swaddled baby in her arms, her husband proudly supporting his wife and child.
‘You are sure you don’t want to take her to the hospital so both of them can be checked out?’ Gemma asked
