The Daughter by Jane Shemilt Page A

about thirty, with Down’s syndrome. Her husband had left years before. I wondered, as I did whenever I saw her, what kept her going day after day. She was still staring at me as I started the engine and pushed the knob of the radio, and it came to me unexpectedly that it could be the other way around. Perhaps I needn’t feel guilty about how much more I seemed to have than she did; she watched me rush in and out, she would know how late Ted came home from work every day. She might even feel sorry for me.
    THE MORNING SLID away quickly. Three women, one after the other, derailed by the mess of ordinary biology: periods, pregnancy, menopause. As I listened and examined, I wanted to tell them that this was normal life, not illness. In other cultures there might be celebrations; perhaps I was the celebrant here, providing recognition of these rites of passage. The last patient, though, Mr. Potter, was really ill. Aged ninety, he had polished his shoes, walked down the hill, and waited his turn to tell me he had left-­sided central crushing chest pain. I looked at his sweaty face, at the smile he was attempting that trembled on his lips. There wasn’t much time.
    â€œSorry, Doctor, I didn’t know. I thought it was indigestion. I didn’t want to bother you.” He spoke with difficulty. Gasping for breath. “Who will feed my cat?”
    He used the phone to speak to his neighbors while I organized his admission to coronary care. He was changing worlds: Behind him was his tiny clean council flat, the faded wedding photos on the brick mantelpiece, the flare of the gas fire with the empty chair opposite his, and the warm presence of a little cat. Ahead of him was a world of high bright lights, tubes, and bleeping monitors; the staff around the desk would be too far away, or too close, breathing into his face, or talking to him as if he were a deaf child. I wanted to tell him to wear his war medals.
    FRANK SAT BEHIND a leather-­topped antique desk, making phone calls. He lifted his eyebrows, smiled, and nodded at the chair. There were two mugs of coffee on the desk in front of him, the fragrance filling the room. I sat down.
    He put the phone down and sighed, wrapping large hands around one of the mugs. His glasses were askew; no bit of desk was visible beneath the rubble of instruments, pens, and forms.
    There had been a bureaucratic screwup by the Primary Care Trust; appraisals were changing again. The coffee warmed me and I began to relax. We talked about the morning.
    â€œI’ve referred Jade Price to the community pediatrician. Possible child abuse. I didn’t tell the mother I would at the time, so I’m going round to the house later today.”
    Frank listened to the story, eyes wary.
    â€œI know the Prices. Be careful, Jenny, and look from all angles. They don’t strike me as abusive.”
    â€œThere aren’t that many angles,” I said, remembering the bruises and Jade’s exhausted stillness. “The family profile fits. Her father’s an alcoholic bully. Her mother’s depressed.”
    â€œWhy go round? You could simply phone.”
    â€œIt will be difficult to tell her I suspect the family of child abuse. I can pick my moment better face-­to-­face.” I paused as another thought occurred to me. “There might be more clues at the house as well.”
    â€œDo you want me to come with you?”
    â€œWhat? Why?”
    â€œThey could run rings round you, or get nasty. You seem a bit . . . preoccupied. I mean, not just about this. Something’s ruffling the feathers.”
    Frank hadn’t been a family doctor for thirty years for nothing.
    â€œOh, you know. Family stuff.”
    â€œTed okay?”
    â€œFine, mostly. In fact, his star is in the ascendant,” remembering the glimmer last night, the excitement that had shone from him.
    â€œKids? My favorite godchild?”
    â€œNaomi’s changed. Quieter, I