shakily, but Fisher did not linger; he carried the baby away to the Special Care Baby Unit, where she would be placed in an incubator and assessed.
Mr Kydd, having done his vital work, left the suturing to Shelagh, while McDowall stayed at the mother’s side, doing his own observations of her condition. They worked in silence until at a quarter to ten Shelagh placed an adhesive dressing over the line of stitches, wiped her forehead, and pulled off her gloves, mask and theatre cap. This, then, was herlife as a doctor, she thought, her personal satisfaction at a time of personal sadness. She and her mother had grown much closer over the past week, and Bridget had said for the first time that she was proud of her daughter, for which Shelagh gave thanks that it had been said before it was too late, and would always be remembered.
Leigh McDowall touched her shoulder. ‘Your mum’s doing well, Shelagh.’
‘What? Oh, er, yes, much as would be expected,’ she said. ‘I’m hoping that a sister of hers will be able to come over from Ireland to look after her when she’s discharged.’
‘Ah, that’d be ideal. She’s quite a character, is your mum.’
A sudden thought struck her. ‘Was it
you
who went to see her on Monday afternoon? I thought it must have been the anaesthetist, but obviously not Dr Okoje. Whoever he was, he talked a lot of nonsense, she said.’
‘Is that what she said? And there was I, thinking she’d taken a fancy to me. Cruel world!’
It was impossible not to smile through her irritation. ‘I see what my mother meant about the nonsense – but you certainly made her laugh.’
‘It’s the way they sing the refrain to “Patapan”,’ Jeremy North told Derek Bolt. ‘The choir sings the verses, representing the children playing, and at theend of each verse old Mr Wetherby quavers up on a rising scale, “
Too-ra-loo-ra-LOO!
” followed by Cyril with a face like a hanging judge singing, or rather whistling on another rising scale, “
Pat-a-pat-a-PAN!
” It’s hilarious, and sooner or later we’re all going to collapse with laughter at the poor old chaps.’
It was time for rehearsal again, and Jeremy greeted his enlarged choir, noticing that poor soul Beryl Johnson, looking anxious as usual; perhaps she’ll be as entertained as the rest of us are by the duo, he thought. He looked at Iris and gave her a broad wink, at which she held a finger to her lips;
don’t laugh
. It was a silent exchange between them.
At the end of the rehearsal he glanced at Iris and tentatively offered a lift to any ladies going home. It was answered by a grateful ‘yes, please!’ from Rebecca Coulter who pushed herself forward with Phyllis Maynard and Mary Whittaker.
‘Between us we’ll fill his car,’ she said, and it was only too true. The quiet drink with Iris would have to wait until next week.
‘I’m not too happy about that poor Pendle kid,’ said Leigh McDowall in the antenatal ward office.
‘Trish Pendle with the toxaemia? Yes, she hasn’t got much going for her, has she?’ Shelagh replied. ‘Only seventeen, illegitimate herself, deserted by her boyfriend, the usual story. It’s hardly surprising that she gave in to the first boy who showed her any attention.’
Sister Dickenson interrupted sharply. ‘That girl would do better to stay in bed instead of always hopping off to the day room for an illicit smoke. She’s such a
silly
girl, says she can’t eat the food here, and gets a girlfriend to bring her in a bag of soggy chips every evening. It’s no wonder she’s so overweight!’
‘I’ll try having a talk with her,’ said Shelagh. ‘And we’ll get the dietician up to see her and discuss her likes and dislikes. Meanwhile I’ll write her up for multivitamins and iron.’
Tanya sniffed, and continued speaking to McDowall. ‘Her blood pressure’s creeping up, Leigh, one hundred and forty-five over ninety-five, and one plus of protein in her urine. What she needs is a
Mr Kydd, having done his vital work, left the suturing to Shelagh, while McDowall stayed at the mother’s side, doing his own observations of her condition. They worked in silence until at a quarter to ten Shelagh placed an adhesive dressing over the line of stitches, wiped her forehead, and pulled off her gloves, mask and theatre cap. This, then, was herlife as a doctor, she thought, her personal satisfaction at a time of personal sadness. She and her mother had grown much closer over the past week, and Bridget had said for the first time that she was proud of her daughter, for which Shelagh gave thanks that it had been said before it was too late, and would always be remembered.
Leigh McDowall touched her shoulder. ‘Your mum’s doing well, Shelagh.’
‘What? Oh, er, yes, much as would be expected,’ she said. ‘I’m hoping that a sister of hers will be able to come over from Ireland to look after her when she’s discharged.’
‘Ah, that’d be ideal. She’s quite a character, is your mum.’
A sudden thought struck her. ‘Was it
you
who went to see her on Monday afternoon? I thought it must have been the anaesthetist, but obviously not Dr Okoje. Whoever he was, he talked a lot of nonsense, she said.’
‘Is that what she said? And there was I, thinking she’d taken a fancy to me. Cruel world!’
It was impossible not to smile through her irritation. ‘I see what my mother meant about the nonsense – but you certainly made her laugh.’
‘It’s the way they sing the refrain to “Patapan”,’ Jeremy North told Derek Bolt. ‘The choir sings the verses, representing the children playing, and at theend of each verse old Mr Wetherby quavers up on a rising scale, “
Too-ra-loo-ra-LOO!
” followed by Cyril with a face like a hanging judge singing, or rather whistling on another rising scale, “
Pat-a-pat-a-PAN!
” It’s hilarious, and sooner or later we’re all going to collapse with laughter at the poor old chaps.’
It was time for rehearsal again, and Jeremy greeted his enlarged choir, noticing that poor soul Beryl Johnson, looking anxious as usual; perhaps she’ll be as entertained as the rest of us are by the duo, he thought. He looked at Iris and gave her a broad wink, at which she held a finger to her lips;
don’t laugh
. It was a silent exchange between them.
At the end of the rehearsal he glanced at Iris and tentatively offered a lift to any ladies going home. It was answered by a grateful ‘yes, please!’ from Rebecca Coulter who pushed herself forward with Phyllis Maynard and Mary Whittaker.
‘Between us we’ll fill his car,’ she said, and it was only too true. The quiet drink with Iris would have to wait until next week.
‘I’m not too happy about that poor Pendle kid,’ said Leigh McDowall in the antenatal ward office.
‘Trish Pendle with the toxaemia? Yes, she hasn’t got much going for her, has she?’ Shelagh replied. ‘Only seventeen, illegitimate herself, deserted by her boyfriend, the usual story. It’s hardly surprising that she gave in to the first boy who showed her any attention.’
Sister Dickenson interrupted sharply. ‘That girl would do better to stay in bed instead of always hopping off to the day room for an illicit smoke. She’s such a
silly
girl, says she can’t eat the food here, and gets a girlfriend to bring her in a bag of soggy chips every evening. It’s no wonder she’s so overweight!’
‘I’ll try having a talk with her,’ said Shelagh. ‘And we’ll get the dietician up to see her and discuss her likes and dislikes. Meanwhile I’ll write her up for multivitamins and iron.’
Tanya sniffed, and continued speaking to McDowall. ‘Her blood pressure’s creeping up, Leigh, one hundred and forty-five over ninety-five, and one plus of protein in her urine. What she needs is a
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