A Family Affair Read online

  ‘But she’s dead,’ Helen said. ‘And she was my patient. I should have thought!’ She hesitated. ‘Reuben thinks so, too. He’s furious with me.’

  ‘Of course he’s not furious. Just worried. He is the senior partner in this practice, after all. The buck stops with him.’

  ‘Well, I got the very definite impression that I was not exactly flavour of the month.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you are, but …’

  ‘And I’ve blown any chance I might have had of being offered a partnership here.’

  The moment the words were out she could have bitten off her tongue.

  Paul was looking at her with an expression that was both startled and quizzical.

  ‘You want a partnership? Here?’

  ‘Oh, I know I’m being presumptive. I know I haven’t been here very long and I’ve no right … but yes, actually, that’s what I’ve been hoping for ever since I came. Surely that’s what every GP works towards? And this is my family’s home town, remember.’

  ‘Well, yes, but …’ He swung back on the cupboards. ‘I had the impression you’d be wanting to get back to Bristol when the time was right.’

  Her face flamed. He’d made some enquiries, of course, and now he knew not only exactly who Guy was, but also that he had a wife and children to account for. It wouldn’t have been difficult. Guy was well known in medical circles.

  ‘I never wanted to go back to Bristol,’ she said. ‘I plan to make my home here. That’s why I’ve bought a house, why I’m hoping to get Charlotte to come and live with me. And naturally I hoped I might get a partnership eventually. Yes, I admit it. But I guess that’ll be out of the window now.’

  He swung forward again, regarding her steadily.

  ‘I don’t think Reuben would hold it against you. Provided he’s satisfied with you in every other respect.’

  ‘Mmm.’ She thought, but didn’t say, that she had the very definite impression that Reuben was not entirely satisfied with her. Recently everything had seemed to be going wrong – Miss Freeman dying of pneumonia at home, not in hospital as Reuben would have preferred; the family who had defected to Dr Honeybourne at South Compton because they were unhappy about her treatment of their daughter; a hundred and one little things when she’d seen his eyebrows go up and his mouth tighten.

  ‘I have a say in it too,’ Paul reminded her. Yes, and I alienated you by going back to Guy, she thought.

  ‘Look, Helen, you’ve really got to stop crucifying yourself over Ida Lockyear,’ he went on. ‘It could have happened to any of us. I’d probably have come to exactly the same conclusion. We talked about her – remember? You told me all about her symptoms and I didn’t cotton on either.’

  ‘That’s true … we did talk about her, didn’t we?’ Helen said, brightening a little.

  ‘We did. And like you I thought it was nothing more serious than a case of extreme loneliness. We’re doctors, Helen, not clairvoyants.’

  ‘But if I’d visited her at home I might have realised …’

  ‘Did she ask for a home visit?’

  ‘No, but …’

  ‘There you are then. You did all you could reasonably be expected to do.’

  She was silent, chewing her lip.

  ‘And now,’ he said, ‘I really think you should go home and try to get some rest while you can. This has been a long winter and it’s not over yet. You look all in.’

  ‘I am,’ she admitted.

  ‘Have you had anything to eat today?’

  ‘Toast at breakfast. I didn’t feel like anything at lunchtime.’

  ‘You must eat.’

  For a moment she thought he was going to suggest they got fish and chips as they had sometimes used to, and to her surprise she felt her heart lift. She’d missed him; she’d really missed him. But he didn’t suggest fish and chips.

  ‘Go home, get yourself a good supper, have a hot bath and go to bed,’ he said. ‘Doctor’s orders.’

  She smiled, wearily and a little sadly.

  ‘OK, I will.’

  ‘And stop worrying – right?’

  ‘Right.’

  At least, she thought, as she drove home through the dark, rain-slick streets, some good had come out of tragedy. At least she and Paul had gone some way to mending their bridges, and for that she was grateful. But to lose a patient in such a way was a high price to pay for it.

  ‘Was there any post for me today, Mum?’ Jenny asked.

  Carrie, straining potatoes over the sink, kept her eyes fixed on the pan.

  ‘Post?’

  ‘Yes. A letter for me – from Bryn.’

  Carrie gave her head a small non-committal shake.

  ‘Haven’t seen anything.’

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see Jenny’s face. She looked not only disappointed but worried somehow.

  ‘You were expecting a letter, were you?’ she asked ingenuously.

  ‘Well – yes. I usually hear every two or three days. It’s been five.’

  Carrie snorted in a good imitation of scornful amusement.

  ‘Five days!’

  ‘I know it doesn’t sound much,’ Jenny said defensively. But it’s a long time for Bryn.’

  ‘I expect the shine’s wearing off,’ Carrie said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s been a bit much of it, writing every two or three days. You can’t expect him to keep that up, especially when you haven’t seen him for months and you hardly knew him in the first place.’

  ‘That’s an awful thing to say!’

  Carrie turned to replace the saucepan on the hob and saw that Jenny’s eyes had filled with tears. She experienced a pang of guilt but quickly smothered it. She’d done what she’d done for Jenny’s own good. But she wished Jenny didn’t have to be hurt in the process.

  ‘Oh, I expect you’ll hear by the end of the week,’ she said, an attempt at comfort which came out sounding impatient. ‘In the meantime, just try and forget about him. Nothing’s going to come of it in the end. It won’t last, Jenny.’

  ‘Oh yes it will,’ Jenny said. The tears were still glittering in her eyes and there was a small uncontrollable tremble at the corner of her mouth. But there was a certainty in her voice that made alarm bells ring in Carrie’s gut. ‘Oh yes it will, Mum. As far as I’m concerned, it’s going to last for ever!’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jenny was almost beside herself. It was three weeks now since she had heard from Bryn. And that was not the worst of it. She was horribly, sickeningly sure that she was pregnant.

  The realisation had not come as a shock to her. In a strange sort of way she felt as if she had known right from the very first day. Somehow, without being able to explain it, she had felt different.

  At first she had tried to explain it to herself as the result of being in love – making love for the first time – being parted from Bryn so soon afterwards. The strange niggly sensation deep inside could be nervous excitement, so might that feeling of not-quite nausea. Even missing a period could be put down to the same thing – everyone knew that tension and the like could upset a cycle. But as the days became weeks and still her period didn’t come she began to acknowledge as fact what she had known all along.

  At first her moods veered between dread of what Carrie would say and excitement. If she put all the practicalities to one side, the thought of having Bryn’s child was actually an intoxicating one. She missed him so much! If she was pregnant they’d get married. Then they’d be together – wouldn’t they? – a proper family, she and Bryn and the baby. She wasn’t actually sure whether National Servicemen were allocated married quarters or not, but he wouldn’t be doing National Service for ever. Somehow they’d manage to be together. It was all she wanted now, and she felt confident it was what he would want too.

  Yet she mentioned nothing of this in her letters to Bryn. Several times she began to write of her suspicions, each time she tore the page up and began again. This wasn’t someth
ing she wanted to commit to paper. She wanted to tell him face to face, have his immediate support and reassurance. And supposing her letter went astray or was opened by someone else? It was such a private thing, telling a man you were going to have his child. They’d talked about him coming to stay – she’d even asked Carrie about it and got a tentative agreement, but if she reneged on that, Jenny was fairly sure she could persuade Heather to allow him to stay with her. She’d wait a while. There was still plenty of time.

  And then his letters stopped coming.

  Every day Jenny rushed home, eagerly at first, and then with growing desperation. She kept reminding herself of those first few weeks after he’d gone, when she’d gone through the same sort of experience. It had been all right then; it must be all right now. There must be a reason for him not writing. But none of the scenarios she came up with really held water. Jenny’s anxiety became so acute that she couldn’t forget it for a single moment of a single day. It was with her from the moment she woke each morning, and it invaded her dreams so that they were overlaid with an aura of nightmare.

  She began to feel as if she was constantly trembling – though her hands were steady, her insides felt like jelly and there was a tight knot in her stomach, a dull ache that made her think, several times a day, that her period was going to come after all. She’d rush to the toilet and sit there, willing the blood to come. Once it did – a sparse, brownish flow and she trembled again with the elation of relief. But after a few hours it tapered off again and the anxiety returned, so overwhelming she was almost crying from it.

  She wrote again, begging him to get in touch, saying that she had something very important to tell him.

  ‘You won’t forget to post it, will you, Mum?’ she said, propping it up against the teapot before she left to catch her bus to college.

  Carrie almost always took care of the mail. She had to pass the post office on her way to work.

  ‘Of course I won’t forget,’ Carrie said impatiently. ‘I don’t know why you keep lowering yourself to write to him, though. You shouldn’t do the chasing. It won’t do you any good. Men like to make the running.’

  ‘I’m not chasing,’ Jenny objected.

  ‘Well, that’s how it looks to me. If he wants to write to you, he’ll write. But I expect the truth of the matter is he’s got tired of it. I expect he’s met somebody else.’

  Jenny didn’t argue. For one thing, she didn’t have time – if she didn’t leave right this minute she’d miss her bus – and for another, she was beginning to wonder herself whether this might be the case.

  ‘Will you please post it anyway?’

  ‘All right,’ Carrie agreed, ‘but I think you’re being very silly, Jenny.’

  Jenny ran all the way down the hill and when she got to the bus stop she felt so sick she thought she was going to throw up, right there in the road.

  So far she had told no-one about her predicament. When she’d mentioned to Marilyn that she hadn’t heard from Bryn lately she’d received no more sympathy than she had from Carrie. Marilyn had taken much the same attitude – a sort of smug ‘I told you so’ which did nothing to help. What she would say if Jenny told her she was going to have a baby didn’t bear thinking about. Defending to herself what she had done was one thing; explaining it to Marilyn quite another. And although she couldn’t honestly say that if she had her time over it would be any different, the truth was that Jenny did feel a bit guilty and ashamed. At the very least she’d been naive and trusting, at worst easy. Neither was something she was happy about admitting to. But keeping her secret to herself made it seem all the more daunting, a huge weight she carried around with her.

  That February evening as she hurried up the hill on her way home, Heather was watching out for her. As she drew level with the house, the front door opened and Heather appeared, waving and calling out. Jenny’s heart sank. She was anxious to get home and see if today’s post had brought her a letter.

  She crossed the road and went up the steps.

  ‘Hiya.’

  ‘Hiya, Jen. Can you take some cakes up to Mum for me?’

  ‘Cakes?’ Jenny said blankly.

  ‘Yes. Rock cakes. You know how Dad loves a rock cake with his sandwiches.’

  ‘OK. You got them ready?’

  ‘You’re in a hurry tonight,’ Heather said. ‘They won’t be a minute.’

  ‘You mean they’re not ready.’

  ‘They’ll be out of the oven any minute now. Aren’t you going to come in? Gran’s next door having a cup of tea with Mrs Freak. It’s only me and Vanessa.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Well, you don’t want to stay out there, do you? Come on, I want to shut the door. I’m letting all the cold in.’

  Jenny went in with bad grace. The house was full of the smell of baking. It filled her with aching nostalgia for her lost childhood. Carrie hardly ever baked. But the smell also made her feel a bit sick again.

  Vanessa was at her small desk, playing with plasticine.

  ‘Auntie Jenny! I’m making a pig – look!’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Jenny said, without interest.

  Heather looked at her curiously.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Grouchy?’

  ‘I’m not grouchy.’

  ‘Bad day?’

  ‘No. Stop asking me stupid questions!’

  ‘Not grouchy, eh,’ Heather said sarcastically.

  ‘I just don’t feel like talking,’ Jenny said. ‘I don’t feel very well.’ And promptly burst into tears.

  ‘Jen!’ Heather said, concerned. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing!’

  ‘Something is. Come into the kitchen – come on!’

  Reluctantly Jenny followed her. Heather opened the oven, took out a tray of nicely browned rock cakes and set them on the table.

  ‘Now – tell me what’s the matter.’

  Jenny shook her head.

  ‘Come on – it can’t be that bad!’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Well, tell me then.’

  ‘No – I can’t.’

  ‘Jenny – it’s me – Heather. I’m not Mum. Whatever it is, you can tell me.’

  Jenny just cried harder, her fist pressed against her mouth.

  ‘Oh, Jenny – don’t … You’ll make yourself ill. Please, tell me what it is!’

  Jenny gulped, opened her eyes and looked at Heather over the top of her bunched fist.

  ‘It’s … oh, Heather, I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘I can’t help you if you won’t tell me, Jenny.’

  It was still a few moments before she could bring herself to speak. The need to share her anxiety was intense now and Heather was just the right person. But once she’d said the words she couldn’t take them back. Her secret would be out. And she was so ashamed.

  ‘I … I …’

  Heather waited.

  ‘I … oh, Heather, I think I’m going to have a baby.’

  Now it was Heather who was lost for words. Jenny looked at her through blurry, tear-drenched lashes and saw the look of blank shock. It was as if Heather’s face had been carved in stone, frozen in the expression of concern it had worn for the past few minutes. Then she closed her eyes briefly, exhaled in an audible sigh, and became familiar, caring Heather once more.

  ‘Oh, Jenny,’ she said. And then: ‘Are you sure?’

  Jenny nodded. ‘Almost. I haven’t had a period since Christmas and I feel … oh, really horrid most of the time.’

  ‘Sick?’

  ‘Well – yes. And peculiar … right here.’ She pressed her hands against the lower part of her abdomen.

  ‘You haven’t been to the doctor, have you?’ Jenny shook her head. ‘Well, there could be some other reason for it. You never know …’ But she didn’t look as if she believed it. ‘Could you be pregnant? I mean … have you been with anybody?’

  Jenny nodded silently, the tears welling again.

  ‘That RAF boy, I suppos
e,’ Heather said. ‘Does he know?’

  ‘No – that’s the other thing. That’s why I’m so worried. I haven’t heard from him – not for weeks now. I don’t know why …’

  Heather’s mouth tightened. I could make a good guess, that look said.

  ‘No!’ Jenny said, anguished. ‘No, you’re wrong! He wouldn’t do that, Heather! He wouldn’t leave me in the lurch.’

  ‘So why hasn’t he been in touch?’

  ‘I don’t know! But it isn’t because of the baby. I haven’t told him.’

  ‘He might have a jolly good idea,’ Heather said tartly. ‘He knows what he did, after all. And unless he’s thick he knows what the consequences might be.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that, Heather, please! He wouldn’t! I’m sure he’d never do that.’

  Heather, on the point of making a sharp retort, bit it back. Jenny was upset enough. ‘I take it you haven’t said anything to Mum?’

  ‘No! She’ll go mad! I don’t know what she’ll do …’

  ‘Look,’ Heather said. ‘The first thing is to find out if you really are pregnant. If you’re not, there’s no need for Mum to even know you’ve been silly. I’ll ring the doctor for you, see if we can make the appointment instead of having to queue up in the surgery. And I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Would you? Would you really?’

  ‘I’ll do it tomorrow. Call in on your way home and I’ll tell you what I’ve been able to fix up. In the meantime, don’t say anything to anybody. And try not to worry.’

  ‘Oh, Heather – you’re a star!’

  ‘Oh, don’t talk daft! Come on now, dry your eyes, there’s a good girl. You look a fright.’

  ‘Mum will wonder why I’m late …’

  ‘Just tell her I kept you talking. But she’ll know there’s something the matter if you go home looking like that. So go and wash your face and then try to cheer up.’

  Footfalls on the steps outside the kitchen window.