ulcer on the way home.’
Jennifer sighed. ‘And how many other house calls did you promise to make?’ She released the valve on the bulb. ‘Your blood pressure’s fine. One-forty over ninety.’ She placed the disc of the stethoscope on Brian’s chest. ‘Take a few deep breaths for me.’
The pot of tea was cold by the time Jennifer arrived in the hospital kitchen. She threw a teabag into a mug and waited for the kettle to boil again. Wendy came into the kitchen carrying a tray of empty cups and saucers.
‘Mrs D. says she wants another biscuit.’ Wendy reached for a tin on the shelf above the toaster. ‘And she’s already had two!’
‘The storm’s not bothering her, then?’
‘I don’t think she’s noticed.’
Jennifer grinned. Mrs Dobson had become a long-term inpatient. At ninety-seven, she required more medical attention than the local rest home was able to manage, and it had seemed cruel to send her out of the area she had lived in all her life even though she was now often unaware of her surroundings.
‘How’s Lester?’
‘Quiet. He was asleep so I didn’t disturb him.’
‘Pain relief must be working, then.’ Jennifer added a spoonful of sugar to her tea. Lester Booth was suffering from an extremely painful dose of shingles. ‘What about Liz?’
‘The contractions are following the same pattern. One strong one and then one really feeble one.’ Wendy was stacking cups and saucers into the dishwasher. ‘She’s really fed up and her back pain is getting worse.’
‘Have you checked the foetal heartbeat?’
Wendy nodded. ‘Nothing’s changed. There’s no sign of foetal distress.’ She grinned at Jennifer. ‘Only the maternal variety.’
Jennifer sipped her tea thoughtfully. ‘At this rate Liz is going to be worn out well before we get anywhere near the second stage. If I’d sent her into town yesterday she could have been managed more effectively. They could have speeded things up and done a Caesarean if a forceps delivery failed.’
‘Liz wanted to wait to give Peter a chance to get home,’ Wendy added. ‘She was quite pleased when things ground to a halt. Are we likely to run into trouble, do you think?’
‘I hope not. It’s been a while since I did a forceps rotation and delivery, though.’ Jennifer glanced towards the small kitchen window as a wave of hail assaulted the glass. ‘I’m worried about the road being cut off. Having that on top of a potential complication makes us feel rather isolated. Let’s just hope the baby decides to co-operate and turn itself around.’
Wendy followed her glance with a grimace. ‘It’s probably snowing on the hilltop by now.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better go and check on Liz after I’ve given this to Mrs D.’ Wendy picked up the plate with the chocolate biscuit. ‘Then I’ll take Brian a cup of tea. He wasn’t in the office when I went past.’
‘I’ve sent him home.’ Jennifer caught Wendy’s surprised expression and smiled a trifle grimly. ‘He’s getting angina again.’
‘Oh, no!’ The biscuit was in danger of sliding off the plate. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Hard to know. I suspect Brian hasn’t lost his touch at hiding symptoms. I checked him out and I’ll do another ECG in the morning, but I didn’t want him here just in case things do get busy.’
A faint noise reached the women above the howl of the midwinter storm. A noise that rose and fell with an easily recognised urgency. The warning siren was used to call the local volunteer fire officers in to their station. It was unlikely that their fire-fighting skills would be required right now, however. Far more likely that their role as first responders for ambulance or rescue work was being summoned. Even while the noise was being registered in the kitchen, a much closer signal sounded.
‘That’s the surgery bell. Shall I go?’ Mrs D.’s biscuit was abandoned on the bench.
‘No, I’ll go.’ Jennifer tipped out the rest of her tea. ‘You stay with Liz.’ She looked over her shoulder as she moved to the door. ‘And could you ring home for me when you’ve got a minute? I still haven’t checked on the children.’
The large man standing in the tiny waiting room was wearing an oilskin parka that streamed water onto the linoleum floor. He held one hand clutched to his chest and well-diluted blood was staining the rapidly growing puddle. ‘John! What’s happened?’ Jennifer held open the door of the treatment room. ‘Come straight in here.’
‘It’s a bit of a mess, Doc.’ John Bellamy sat down heavily on a chair as Jennifer pulled gloves on and reached for a pack of sterile dressings. ‘I was just making sure the boat was secure and this wave rolled right over the deck. I landed in my tackle box.’ His face twisted as Jennifer moved his hand to place it on a towel on the bed beside him. She pulled the head of the angle lamp out from the wall and clicked on the light. ‘I got one of the damned hooks out but there’s another one that’s too deep.’
‘Sure is.’ Jennifer looked at the fish hook buried in the calloused pad below John’s thumb. ‘And you’ve got a nasty tear where you pulled the other one out. It’s going to need a stitch or two. Let’s get your coat off and make you a bit more comfortable first.’
‘No point in getting dry.’ John shook his head firmly. ‘I need to get back and keep an eye on the boat. The tide’s not full in yet and we’ve got waves breaking on the road already.’
Jennifer was drawing up local anaesthetic into a syringe. ‘It’s going to be too dangerous to be anywhere near the boats, then.’ She looked at her patient with concern. ‘You’re not thinking of getting back on board, I hope.’
John shook his head wearily, releasing more droplets of water from his grizzled hair. ‘I just need to watch,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s my livelihood out there.’
‘I know.’ Jennifer’s tone was sympathetic. ‘Let’s hope things don’t get any worse.’
The surgery bell rang again just as Jennifer eased the fish hook from the incision she had made with a scalpel. She pressed a sterile gauze pad over the wound. ‘Hold that on for a second, John. I’d better see who that is.’
Two women stood in the waiting room. The younger woman looked anxious. ‘Mum’s had a fall, Dr Tremaine.’
‘I couldn’t see a thing when the lights went out!’ The older woman sounded annoyed. ‘I tripped over the coffee-table.’
‘Were you knocked out?’
‘No, but I’ve cut my leg and you know what my skin’s like.’
Jennifer nodded. Edith Turner had been on steroids for years to treat her lung condition. Even a slight knock could tear her papery skin badly. Judging by the blood-soaked towel around her lower leg, this accident had been more than a slight knock. She touched the towel to find the stain almost dry.
‘It’s stopped bleeding, anyway. Take a seat in the consulting room and I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes. I’ve just got a few stitches and a dressing to take care of.’ Jennifer was debating whether to
