was playing havoc with her blood-sugar levels, making control of her insulin-dependent diabetes very difficult.
‘How’s the pain?’
Lady Dorothy simply gave him a look and Oliver had to smile. It was exactly the kind of look he remembered from when he’d been a small child and he’d hurt himself in some fashion. The ‘suck it up and get on with it’ look because pain was an inconvenience that couldn’t be allowed to interfere with life being lived. Or duty being done. It was the way Lady Dorothy had been raised and the way she’d raised her only son.
His mother might look like an ultimately pampered member of the most elite social circle to be found in the young country of New Zealand but he knew she had the strength of a tiger and a heart of purest gold. Her fundraising efforts were legendary and St Patrick’s had benefited along with countless other institutions and charitable organisations. Lady Dorothy was seventy-three years old and had never needed to work for financial reasons but she put more time and effort into her passion than some forty-year-old CEOs of large corporations ever did.
If being able to be hands on for her work had come to an end, Lady Dorothy would be devastated but right now she wouldn’t be able to make a phone call, let alone hold a pen. And if her blood-sugar levels couldn’t be stabilised she wouldn’t be able to drive her car or be left alone at any time due to the risk of her falling into a diabetic coma. While she’d always had help running their enormous property with the help of a housekeeper and gardener, more intrusive staff had always been spurned. An invasion of privacy that simply wasn’t acceptable.
Changes were coming, that was for sure. For both of them. Oliver could also be sure that his mother would fight them every step of the way. Achieving them would be no kind of victory either. Not when each one would be so painful for her to accept, removing more and more of her independence and dignity.
He summoned a smile for his mother. ‘It’s a glorious day. If you got dressed, I might be able to take you for a ride in a wheelchair when I’ve finished work. It would do you good to get a breath of fresh air.’
His mother shook her head. He clearly needed to find more of an incentive than fresh air. And quickly. A glance at his watch told him he was running out of time and his registrar would be looking for him in Outpatients.
‘We could even find something nice for your dinner.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I happen to know where a fast-food joint is.’ His smile broadened as he took out the big guns and tapped into his mother’s most secret vice. ‘Cheeseburgers,’ he suggested. ‘And French fries.’
The idea was brilliant. Even with her fingers so stiff and useless, Lady Dorothy might be able to manage that kind of food and it would pack enough calories for even a small amount to be helpful. To his horror, however, his mother’s eyes shone with sudden tears. They were gone by the time she had shaken her head in a negative response but Oliver could feel her anguish. He touched her hand gently.
‘What’s wrong, Mum?’
‘Sophie,’ his mother said, her voice wobbling.
‘Who’s Sophie?’
Was that the name of the clumsy, line-dancing blonde who was masquerading as a nurse? If she’d done something to upset his mother this much then she wouldn’t know what hit her. It occurred to him that defending his mother so vigorously in public might brand him as some kind of mummy’s boy, but there was no way he wouldn’t protect his mother with everything he had. She was the only family he had. The only person that really mattered in his world, come to that. And did he care what a junior nurse with oversized blue eyes thought of him?
Of course he didn’t. The idea was laughable.
‘She’s the occupational therapist,’ Lady Dorothy told him. ‘She came in this morning with the kind of clothes she said were ideal because I’d be able to learn to get dressed by myself.’
‘Oh?’ Oliver was assimilating more than the information. Was he relieved that this Sophie wasn’t the nurse and he wouldn’t have to verbally rip her to shreds and watch those ready-to-laugh lips wobble when she began to cry?
That he wouldn’t be in danger of revealing something as personal and vaguely shameful as the fact that he was a thirty-six-year-old man who still lived with his mother? Well, it could hardly be considered living with his mother when they both had entirely separate wings of the house but he was still living at home, wasn’t he?
And why was he even thinking about how that might appear to some nurse whose name he didn’t even know? It was bizarre.
‘They were … track pants, Oliver. With … an elasticised waist.’
‘Oh …’
Track pants. A kind of symbol that his mother equated with fluffy slippers, going out with a chiffon scarf covering hair curlers and a cigarette dangling from a mouth corner. It wasn’t that his mother was a snob—she had genuine friends from all walks of life—but self-discipline was everything and meeting personal standards was a matter of pride. Wearing track pants would be as degrading as putting Lady Dorothy into a nappy.
Something had to be done. But what? This was new territory for both Oliver and his mother. He needed to think. In the meantime, he needed to find a way of helping his mother cope somehow.
‘How ‘bout I bring the burgers and fries in here? Disguised in a plain brown paper bag?’ An old joke for a treat that was deemed illicit.
The flicker of amusement was only for his benefit. ‘Thanks, darling, but don’t go to any trouble. I don’t expect I’ll be very hungry.’ She had turned her head away very slightly. ‘It really is time we stopped that ridiculously unhealthy habit, don’t you think?’
Oliver was taken aback by the strong realisation that he didn’t agree with his mother’s suggestion.
The disturbing awareness that something was happening that might prove to be beyond his control was less than pleasant.
The occasional foray into the dark side of healthy eating was hardly a habit for either of them. It was a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of thing, in fact, but it had been a part of their lives for a long, long time. So long that it had become one of his earliest memories. A rare, good memory. One that had bestowed a little pleasure in a life that had often been less than joyful for both himself and his mother.
OK, maybe it was an ancient ritual associated with childhood and no longer of any significance but losing it would be …
As sad as seeing his mother like this?
He heard Lady Dorothy’s intake of breath. A determined, suck-it-up kind of breath.
‘Don’t let me take up too much of your time, Oliver. I’m sure you must have far more important things to be doing.’
‘I’ve got a clinic to finish, that’s all.’ Oliver could feel his frown steadily deepening. There had to be a way through this. ‘And then a theatre slot this afternoon. And you have to eat, you know that. I’ll be back later.’
With French fries, at least. He wasn’t ready to let go of the past to that extent. He didn’t think his mother was either. This was just a sign of how miserable she was feeling right now. With a bit of time, she might get over the upsetting episode of the track pants.
Coming back later was a good idea in more ways than
