the rest of the post – two circulars from the council, three charity requests and a few more Christmas cards. No doubt there would be one from
her
among the many that poured through the letter box, hand-delivered. His stomach gave a lurch as he imagined Daphne picking up the mail.
In the darkness of the hospital car park, on the backseat of Paul Sykes’ car, Shelagh laid her dark head on his shoulder; he encircled her with his arms, whispering in her ear.
‘Darling, you need a good rest, right away from this place. Ever since this worrying time with your mother I’ve been longing to be near you – but you’ve seemed so far away.’
‘Oh, Paul, if you only knew how much I’ve longed for
you
– I need you more than ever,’ she answered. ‘But I can’t see how or when we can be together, now that the caravan’s closed for the winter.’
‘I know, Shelagh, I know only too well how you feel,’ he said softly, letting his right hand cup her left breast and kissing her. She clung tightly to him, as if to draw strength from his body into hers. He chuckled quietly.
‘Listen, when we next both get a Saturday to Sunday night off, I’ll drive us down to a nice little B & B just outside of Eastbourne, hidden away, “far from the madding crowd” – how does that sound?’
‘Wonderful, Paul, as soon as we can. I’ve written to my mother’s sister in Donegal, hoping she’ll be able to come over and stay with her when she’s discharged – and as soon as that’s sorted, we can head for Eastbourne.’
She gave a long, deep sigh, and Paul’s body reacted sharply to her nearness.
‘God, I want to make love to you, Shelagh! I hate these behind-the-scenes capers – but we’ll make upfor it, darling, won’t we? Kiss me – and again.’
‘I’ll have to go now, Paul. McDowall’s covering for me, and I don’t want to give him something else to joke about.’
‘One last kiss, then. Mmmm …’
When Jane Blake was wheeled into the maternity theatre, Shelagh knew she would need all her concentration. She was to assist Mr Kydd, and they stood together at the washbasins, ‘scrubbing up’, after which they put on surgical gloves and thrust their arms into sterile green gowns tied at the back by Elise the auxiliary ‘runner’. Dr Okoje the anaesthetist had already sent her to sleep with an injection of pentothal, and Dr McDowall was adjusting the flow of the intravenous drip containing a measured amount of her anti-epileptic medication; the paediatrician Dr Fisher waited beside a heated cot with oxygen and aspirator ready if needed. Sister Tanya Dickenson was setting out her trolley with bowls of sterile water, gauze swabs and the swivelling Mayo tray on which lay the instruments to be used first: knife blade, dissection forceps and artery clamp. Mr Blake sat just outside the theatre, wearing a green theatre gown, ready to see his baby as soon as it was born. So, reflected Shelagh, there were nine adults, including the parents, anxiously awaiting the arrival of a small premature baby into the world.
It took only a few minutes for the surgeon to severthe layers of skin, muscle and the shiny uterine wall containing the baby in its warm, watery nest; and as Shelagh held back the abdominal retractors, Mr Kydd deftly removed and held up a tiny baby girl, pink and slippery, and although she was undersized, she gave a mewing cry as if protesting against being thus disturbed. Her little legs jerked and her fists clenched as Shelagh clamped and cut the umbilical cord and handed her to Dr Fisher. Everybody in the theatre exhaled after a tense quarter of an hour.
‘She seems to be in pretty good shape,’ remarked Dr Fisher.
‘At nine-seventeen precisely,’ noted Shelagh.
‘Weight one point seven kilograms,’ added Fisher, and carried her out of the theatre, where her father stepped forward eagerly.
‘Hallo, Dad, I’m a girl!’ said Fisher as Blake gazed in awe.
‘What a little peach!’ he said
her
among the many that poured through the letter box, hand-delivered. His stomach gave a lurch as he imagined Daphne picking up the mail.
In the darkness of the hospital car park, on the backseat of Paul Sykes’ car, Shelagh laid her dark head on his shoulder; he encircled her with his arms, whispering in her ear.
‘Darling, you need a good rest, right away from this place. Ever since this worrying time with your mother I’ve been longing to be near you – but you’ve seemed so far away.’
‘Oh, Paul, if you only knew how much I’ve longed for
you
– I need you more than ever,’ she answered. ‘But I can’t see how or when we can be together, now that the caravan’s closed for the winter.’
‘I know, Shelagh, I know only too well how you feel,’ he said softly, letting his right hand cup her left breast and kissing her. She clung tightly to him, as if to draw strength from his body into hers. He chuckled quietly.
‘Listen, when we next both get a Saturday to Sunday night off, I’ll drive us down to a nice little B & B just outside of Eastbourne, hidden away, “far from the madding crowd” – how does that sound?’
‘Wonderful, Paul, as soon as we can. I’ve written to my mother’s sister in Donegal, hoping she’ll be able to come over and stay with her when she’s discharged – and as soon as that’s sorted, we can head for Eastbourne.’
She gave a long, deep sigh, and Paul’s body reacted sharply to her nearness.
‘God, I want to make love to you, Shelagh! I hate these behind-the-scenes capers – but we’ll make upfor it, darling, won’t we? Kiss me – and again.’
‘I’ll have to go now, Paul. McDowall’s covering for me, and I don’t want to give him something else to joke about.’
‘One last kiss, then. Mmmm …’
When Jane Blake was wheeled into the maternity theatre, Shelagh knew she would need all her concentration. She was to assist Mr Kydd, and they stood together at the washbasins, ‘scrubbing up’, after which they put on surgical gloves and thrust their arms into sterile green gowns tied at the back by Elise the auxiliary ‘runner’. Dr Okoje the anaesthetist had already sent her to sleep with an injection of pentothal, and Dr McDowall was adjusting the flow of the intravenous drip containing a measured amount of her anti-epileptic medication; the paediatrician Dr Fisher waited beside a heated cot with oxygen and aspirator ready if needed. Sister Tanya Dickenson was setting out her trolley with bowls of sterile water, gauze swabs and the swivelling Mayo tray on which lay the instruments to be used first: knife blade, dissection forceps and artery clamp. Mr Blake sat just outside the theatre, wearing a green theatre gown, ready to see his baby as soon as it was born. So, reflected Shelagh, there were nine adults, including the parents, anxiously awaiting the arrival of a small premature baby into the world.
It took only a few minutes for the surgeon to severthe layers of skin, muscle and the shiny uterine wall containing the baby in its warm, watery nest; and as Shelagh held back the abdominal retractors, Mr Kydd deftly removed and held up a tiny baby girl, pink and slippery, and although she was undersized, she gave a mewing cry as if protesting against being thus disturbed. Her little legs jerked and her fists clenched as Shelagh clamped and cut the umbilical cord and handed her to Dr Fisher. Everybody in the theatre exhaled after a tense quarter of an hour.
‘She seems to be in pretty good shape,’ remarked Dr Fisher.
‘At nine-seventeen precisely,’ noted Shelagh.
‘Weight one point seven kilograms,’ added Fisher, and carried her out of the theatre, where her father stepped forward eagerly.
‘Hallo, Dad, I’m a girl!’ said Fisher as Blake gazed in awe.
‘What a little peach!’ he said
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