Tree of Hands by Ruth Rendell

The hectic flush had faded from his cheeks and he had become pale again. His pulse was taken and Benet asked what it was.
    Was there ever a nurse born who would answer that question? ‘He’s not a very well little boy, are you, sweetheart?’
    When they were alone again, Benet put her hand inside the tent for him to hold. Her hand did not interest him. He let her take his, he suffered her touch. All his energies, all his will, seemed concentrated on maintaining his own breathing. Benet held his hand and came as close to him as she could. To leave him and phone the police, to leavehim even for those few short minutes, she could see was out of the question. If Mopsa were wandering, she would be found, and if she were dead – well, she was dead and it was too late. Benet took James’s wrist and began to count his pulse beats, looking at her watch. A hundred, a hundred and ten, twenty, forty, sixty, eighty . . . He couldn’t have a pulse rate of a hundred and eighty a minute, she must have counted wrong. His forehead was cool and dry, his temperature was normal.
    So perhaps he was not so very ill. The first infection had passed off quickly so it was very likely this secondary one would too. If only he wouldn’t breathe in that awful way, puffing like a little weak, feverish, anxious bellows, the way she had never heard anyone breathe before. The door opened, the procession came back, Mr Drew leading it.
    â€˜Now then, this is James, isn’t it? And you are the mother? I’m going to have to do a little operation on James to relieve his breathing.’
    Benet stood up. She felt as if a heavy stone, for some while lodged in her throat, were slowly rolling down through her body.
    â€˜An operation?’
    â€˜Nothing too serious. Just to relieve the breathing. For a few days he’ll be breathing through his neck instead of his nose and mouth.’
    The stone rolled out of her, leaving her with a sick, dry, bruised feeling. ‘Do you mean a tracheotomy?’
    Mr Drew looked at her as if she had no business to know the word, much less utter it. It was Ian Raeburn who answered.
    â€˜It will be a tracheotomy, yes. The larynx in a child of James’s age is very narrow, only about four millimetres across. If you get a millimetre and a half swelling on one side and a millimetre and a half on the other you haven’t much space left to get air through. Now James’s larynx is closing up and we aren’t able to dilate it sufficiently with the ventilator.’
    A nurse came up with the form for her to sign consenting to the operation. Her hand wasn’t very steady.
    â€˜Mr Drew is very experienced,’ Ian Raeburn said. ‘Only a week ago he had to do a tracheotomy on a child with diphtheria, so he’s had some recent practice.’
    â€˜Can I be in the operating theatre with him?’
    â€˜He’ll be under anaesthetic, he won’t know whether you’re there or not. Mr Drew would say he doesn’t want two patients on his hands.’
    It took her a moment to understand what he meant. ‘You mean I might be sick or I might pass out?’ She tried to smile. ‘It’s possible. How does one know?’
    He took her hand and held it. He held it tightly. ‘You can be just outside. It won’t take long.’
    The nurse unzipped the tent and lifted James out. Benet put out her arms to him, was about to say she would carry him herself when the door swung open and Mopsa walked into the room. Benet stared at her, stunned. She looked serene and happy, years younger. Her hair was covered by a pink and red scarf and she wore a rather dashing bright red coat.
    â€˜I’ve been trying to get you on the phone,’ Benet said. ‘I’ve been trying for hours.’
    â€˜Have you really? I heard the phone ringing when I first woke up and then I thought it couldn’t be you, you’d be too occupied with him to bother about me. So I