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Tender Touch
Caroline Anderson
Tender Touch
Caroline Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#ub892f2e0-b2b6-5803-880a-a38b7f008538)
Title Page (#u877a9ae2-8d89-50c1-88ba-e25377ccc72b)
Chapter One (#u6deb5da0-ff0d-5120-9a74-a1cf35660599)
Chapter Two (#u541149a9-a526-55ac-93b6-392275b0c121)
Chapter Three (#u991edb93-b37b-52d1-b303-cef532a73215)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_5bb69f65-98b3-5a29-89c7-42c1758f8c9a)
GAVIN hefted the key in his hand, a slow, satisfied smile touching the corners of his brilliant blue eyes.
His first house—bought on impulse and his before he really even had time to think it all through, but now nevertheless and somewhat surprisingly his very own.
Well, his and the bank’s.
His car just fitted neatly on the drive, leaving room for one more in case he had visitors. A good thing, because the lane outside the row of cottages was narrow and twisting.
He looked up at the front of the cottage, a soft pink bathed in the warm glow of the April sunset, and excitement tickled at his veins. With a grin that wouldn’t be hidden, he put the key in the lock, turned it and let himself in.
The sun came in with him, slanting in through the doorway and bouncing off the dust motes that floated in the air.
Lord, it needed a clean! He looked around with interest, the first time he had seen the room empty. It seemed bigger now, and he began to visualise it as it could be, with a new carpet to replace the tattered rag that more or less covered the floor, pictures on the walls, and one enormous chair, like Eliza Doolittle’s. He’d need another, for visitors—perhaps a small sofa, and maybe a rocking chair, unless he acquired a cat. Now there was a thought. Company. He’d heard rumours that one of Andrew Barrett’s cats had spawned again. A little kitten might be fun.
He grinned again, ridiculously pleased at the idea, and, ducking to clear the low doorway, he wandered through from the large room he had entered into the kitchen at the back. His feet echoed on the red quarry tiles, eerie in the empty room. He looked around. The old stone sink hung at a crazy angle, dangling from the broken cupboard that half supported it. The tiles were grimy and mouldy in the gap where the cooker had stood, and such units as there were had definitely seen better days.
He didn’t see the squalor, though. Instead he saw the tiles gleaming with polish, the sink refurbished and straight, set in a hand-built cabinet, the rest of the room gutted and filled with old pine dressers and a small table and chairs—and curtains. Floral ones, he thought, because a country cottage should have flowers or gingham at the windows and he didn’t think gingham would be colourful enough to brighten the gloomy room.
He went through a poky little lobby with an outside door, through into the bathroom tacked on the end, the facilities primitive but serviceable, he supposed, if you excused the cracked basin and the broken loo seat. The bath could do with a good scrub, he thought, and refused to be depressed.
There was masses of time. He only had to work slowly on it, and he didn’t have to live in it while he was sorting it out. He went back into the front room and through a doorway at the side into the next room, formerly the living-room of the next-door cottage. It was smaller than the first room, but still a decent size—big enough for him, at least. It had a little wooden staircase set behind a door in the corner, winding up to the solitary bedroom on the next floor, and he went up and looked around.
It was almost presentable, the walls in passable condition, and he could see it would take very little work to turn it into something quite respectable.
A good job, because he realised that in the cold light of day the cottage actually needed more doing to it than he had anticipated and he would have to get someone in to share the costs—if he could find anyone willing to live in it. He’d have to sort out the bathroom and kitchen, at least, before he could even try. Then he would need central heating, probably some rewiring—the list was endless.
That was what you got for buying on impulse, he thought with a humourless laugh. He had viewed the pair of cottages—an executor’s sale—on the day of the auction, bid for them on a whim and bought them without even the benefit of a survey. He hadn’t even realised the second cottage was included at the time. That was how thoroughly he’d looked round.
The subsequent survey had proved the structure sound, the building society had been quite happy to advance him the money, and the whole thing had been sewn up in two short weeks.
Talk about hasty, he thought with a wry grin. His careful, ultra-cautious father had had a fit when Gavin had asked him to lend him the deposit. ‘You always hurl yourself into situations without a second thought. One day you’ll come unstuck—I thought it would be over a woman, some lame duck with horrendous problems that you’ll fall for hook, line and sinker, but maybe I was wrong. It’ll probably be now, with this latest piece of madness. Why couldn’t you buy a nice, safe modern house like your sister has? Why a tumbledown old cottage on its last legs? It’ll probably fall down around your ears!’
Gavin chuckled, but then the smile died. Please God, don’t let him be right, he thought with a sobering flicker of doubt in the surveyor’s competence, but then, quelling the doubt ruthlessly, he went down the stairs and back into the other room, then up a similar staircase to the upper floor of the larger cottage. There were two rooms here, a single room at the head of the stairs he could use as a study, and a double room adjoining the other cottage that he would use as his bedroom. Again, the condition of the rooms was passable, and a quick coat of paint would work wonders. It wasn’t his first priority, though.
He glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock. If the supermarkets were still open, he could pick up some cleaning materials and make a start on that awful bathroom.
Six hours later, Gavin stood up stiffly and surveyed his handiwork. The basin was still cracked, but the bath gleamed white, the chrome on the taps sparkled, the tiles were white once again, and the loo had a new, shiny pine seat courtesy of the nearest DIY store.
The kitchen would have to wait for tomorrow. Stripping off the fetching pink rubber gloves and tossing them in the dangling sink, he put his hands on the small of his back and stretched, groaning. If he was lucky he’d get five hours in bed before he had to start operating. His mouth opened in a jaw-cracking yawn, and, digging in the pocket of his jeans for his car keys, he flicked off the lights, locked the doors and headed back to the hospital.
By the end of the weekend he hoped to have the kitchen sorted out, a coat of paint on the inside of the smaller cottage and something to show a potential lodger—if he could find one …
Laura Bailey approached the surgical ward of the Audley Memorial Hospital with a certain amount of trepidation. She hadn’t worked in a hospital as large as this for three years—three years in which her life had changed irrevocably, leaving her with emotional scars that went so deep that she knew she would never recover.
This job was part of her rehabilitation, returning her to society as a fit and functioning member of the workforce, a separate part of her life from the part that was so battered and torn. She could do the job, she knew she could. It was just meeting her colleagues, fending off their curiosity, that she was dreading. She was early, simply because she had been ready and wanted to get this bit over with.
She entered the ward, noting first the quiet bustle, the steady drone of voices, the laughter of an auxilliary nurse in the distance—health-care assistant, she corrected herself. Things had changed since she had first trained nine years before.
A slim, pretty girl with dark hair and the frilly white cap and royal-blue dress of a nursing sister was walking towards her, deep in conversation with a surgeon. At least, Laura assumed he was a surgeon. He was wearing theatre pyjamas, and a stethoscope was dangling round his neck.
They paused at the desk and turned towards each other, and she could see when the conversation changed from professional to personal. They were laughing together now, the sort of teasing, intimate laughter of lovers, and Laura felt loneliness stab at the constant ache in her heart.
The sister looked up then and saw her, and the smile changed, becoming welcoming and open. She laid her hand on the surgeon’s arm, whispered something that brought a soft chuckle from him, and then left his side to walk towards Laura, her hand outstretched.
‘You must be Laura Bailey. I’m Helen Russell. I’m sorry I wasn’t at your interview, but we were on holiday. Welcome to Piccadilly Circus.’
Laura felt her face thaw and a smile form, warmed by Helen’s friendly greeting. She shook the proffered hand. ‘Piccadilly? It all seems very peaceful,’ she told the sister.
Helen laughed. ‘Don’t count your chickens. I wish I could have rostered you for a Sunday on your first day, because it’s much quieter usually, barring emergencies. The ward is usually at its emptiest until lunchtime, so you can find your way round, and then of course we have several admissions in the afternoon for surgery on the Monday, so you can get to know them right from the start. Still, Wednesday’s not too bad. Some of the Monday lot have gone home and we’ve got another lot in for op today for Oliver and another lot tomorrow for Ross, so you can get to know them before they go up to Theatre. Patients are with us for such a short time these days that if you don’t get in quick you miss them!’
Laura laughed with her, relaxing gradually as she realised that the ward sister, at least, was no threat. The opposite, in fact, her friendly acceptance giving Laura a much-needed boost to her confidence. If she could just avoid the personal comments —
‘We have two consultants attached to the ward, Ross Hamilton and Oliver Henderson. My husband Tom is Ross’s senior registrar—you’ll meet him in a minute; he’s just gone to check a post-op he was worried about. He hasn’t got a junior reg at the moment so he’s having to do a lot of the running around himself until the SHO, Paul Curtis, finds his feet a bit more.’
She gave Laura a thoughtful look. ‘Watch Paul. He’s OK, but check what he does and, if you have any doubts, come and find me. He’s just a bit green yet. Then there’s Sue Radley, Oliver’s SR, and Gavin Jones, his registrar. You’ll like Gavin, he’s fun and very easy to get on with. He did his SHO year here two years ago, and now he’s come back. We’re all very glad to have him. He’s one you won’t have to watch—Oliver thinks he’s brilliant, and coming from Oliver that’s high praise indeed.’
She grinned. ‘That’s it for the medical staff. You’ll soon get used to them all. The nursing staff you’ll meet in a minute when they come for report. I’m just going to do the hand-over with Jean Hobbs and I’ll be with you. Why don’t you wander round the ward and get a feel of the geography for a minute?’
Giving Laura a friendly smile, she turned on her heel, disappearing through a door into a room labelled ‘Sister’s Office’. Left on her own, Laura felt the nerves return again. It was silly. She’d been a staff nurse before, but things had changed.
She had changed. Confidence, particularly self-confidence, wasn’t something she took for granted any more. Smoothing the white dress that felt terrifyingly new, she took a steadying breath and walked down the ward, past the nursing station, looking into the little rooms as she passed. Sluice, bathroom, another sluice, stores, linen, treatment-room, and then a room with eight beds in it and windows round two sides, looking out on to the pretty gardens below. One patient was lying with the early-morning sun on her face and her hand shielding her eyes, and Laura asked her if she would like the blind tilted.
‘Oh, no, dear—I was reading, but the sun’s so lovely and warm now.’ She gave a rusty chuckle. ‘I was just enjoying it, like my old cat. She used to lie in the sun—hated the winter, like me. Oh, I do love to see it shine.’
Laura returned her smile. ‘It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? The summer seems to have been so long coming this year.’
The smile faded a little. ‘Tell you the truth, dear, I didn’t think I’d ever see it, I felt that poorly. I feel much happier now, whatever today brings. I really didn’t want to die in the winter—seems so unfriendly, somehow, having all your friends and relatives standing round in the cold and rain, watching your coffin disappear into a hole! It’s much more cheerful to die in the summer, I always think. There’s something lovely about a summer funeral.’
Laura was stunned. Was she dying? She hadn’t got a clue, not having had access to the notes, and she didn’t quite know how to deal with the elderly lady’s apparent acceptance. What if she was just talking generally? Laura gave her a little smile. ‘A bit like summer weddings,’ she said quietly, watching the woman for any sign of distress, but there was none.
‘Absolutely—the flowers don’t look so silly, for a start. I think I might have a little doze now, dear,’ she said, and her eyes drifted shut, sparing Laura from any further attempts at such a tricky conversation.
She glanced up at the consultant’s name on the head of the bed. Oliver Henderson. So Tom Russell wouldn’t be able to shed any light on the patient. She’d have to wait and ask Helen. It said ‘Nil By Mouth’ next to the consultant’s name, so presumably she was scheduled for operation today. She checked the name on the charts at the end, and saw the woman was called Evelyn Peacey. She would ask about her, just as soon as Helen was free.
She finished her tour of the ward, the three single rooms and three other eight-bedded rooms, making thirty-five beds in all. A big ward, then, but it didn’t seem so big because the area was divided up into smaller units, and the courtyards between the wards with their lovely shrubs and paved walkways brought a tranquil air to the practical and busy ward.
And it was busy, she could see that now. There were several nurses working away quietly, clearing away the breakfast things, getting ready for the day shift, and she could hear others approaching, laughing together in the way of colleagues happy in their work.
There was a shriek and a giggle, and a group of nurses erupted onto the ward, spearheaded by a doctor wearing a white coat, a stethoscope dangling round his neck like a loosened tie. He was grinning, and the nurses following him were laughing still. He must be the cause of the shriek, she thought.
His cheerfulness was infectious, his whole face alive with humour, his firm lips parted in a smile to show two rows of even white teeth. There were deep crow’s-feet round his eyes, she guessed the product of constant laughter, and deep creases bracketed his mouth. Laura felt the warmth of his personality reach out and touch her, and a little more of her nervousness retreated.
As the group drew level with her one of the staff nurses said, ‘I’ll come and live with you, Gavin, any day. Just crook your little finger, darlin’, and I’ll be there!’
‘In your dreams, Ruth,’ another girl said, and they all chuckled, Gavin included.
‘I want a lodger, Ruth, not a fight with your husband!’
‘Aw, shucks!’ the girl said with a wry face, and they all laughed again.
Then, as one, they seemed to notice her. The girl called Ruth spoke first, her smile friendly and curious. ‘Hi. Are you our new staff nurse?’
Laura nodded. ‘Laura Bailey. I start today.’
‘I’m Ruth Davis, this is Linda Tucker, and the rest are just cannon-fodder.’
The students wailed in protest, and there was another wave of laughter, punctuated by a protest from the doctor.
‘Don’t I get an intro?’ he grumbled gently, his smile robbing his words of any offence.
‘You can manage to introduce yourself—I need a cup of tea before bedlam starts,’ Ruth announced, and the group vanished at a stroke, dispersing about their work and leaving Laura alone with the doctor.
He held out his hand. ‘Gavin Jones—I’m Oliver Henderson’s registrar. Welcome to the lunatic asylum.’
She took his hand, dry and firm, his grip strong but gentle, the warmth of his palm surprising. She realised with shock that she was cold, despite the day.
Gavin realised it, too, his other hand coming up to cover her cold fingers. ‘You’re freezing—don’t tell me. Nerves?’
She conjured a smile, distracted by the warmth of his touch. ‘A bit. It’s been a long time since I worked in such a busy hospital.’
As soon as the words were out she regretted them, because they invited questions—why so long, where was she before, what had she done since?—questions she was unable and unprepared to answer.
She was safe, however. His smile simply softened in sympathy and he released her hand. ‘You’ll be fine. After a day you’ll think you’ve worked here forever. Helen’s wonderful; she’ll look after you. It’s a good team to be on; everyone’s very supportive and there seems to be a remarkable lack of infighting. It means we can all just get on with the job.’
He looked past her, up the ward to the room at the end. ‘I wonder how Evie is today?’ he murmured.
She followed the direction of his clear blue eyes, and came to rest on Evelyn Peacey, still lying with her face in the sun. ‘Is she dying?’ Laura asked softly.
He nodded. ‘Yes, probably quite soon. She’s got a massive growth around her aorta, and, although we’ll remove all we can, we can’t get it all because it’s into the back wall of her abdomen and surrounding her spine, her aorta and one kidney. If we’d been able to shrink it with drugs it would have helped, but we haven’t unfortunately, so we’ll have to do the best we can. She’ll go out to a hospice for a while when she leaves us, then if she’s lucky she’ll get home again.’
‘If her aorta doesn’t blow.’
‘If. Frankly, she’s very much on borrowed time. At least when she does go, it’ll be quick.’
‘She said she didn’t want a winter funeral,’ Laura said softly.
Gavin’s smile was sad. ‘That sounds like Evie. She’d want sunshine and flowers and everybody laughing. Visiting times when she’s here are an absolute riot.’ His eyes sought Laura’s and the warmth in them struck her yet again. ‘We’ll miss her when she goes. It’ll certainly be quieter.’
‘When does she have her operation?’ Laura asked him.
‘Today—this morning. I think she’s last, because we had no idea how long it would take. There are two before her—Oh, good, Helen’s out of the office so she can give you the report and you’ll get a clearer idea. I’m just going to chat to Evie and the other pre-ops. I’ll see you later. Good luck with your first morning.’
‘Thanks.’ She answered his smile with her own, and watched him walk away, struck yet again by the wealth of kindness in his eyes, and the generous warmth of his personality. He was the sort of doctor who would make patients feel better just because he was around, she thought, and realised with a start that she felt better, too. Dr Feelgood, she thought with a grin, and turned towards Helen just as she looked over at Laura.
‘Found your way round?’
‘Just about.’
‘Good. I see Gavin’s introduced himself. Come and meet the others and have report, then you can come round with me and give me a hand with the pre-meds. We’ve got a lot to do.’
She wasn’t joking. Hours later Laura thought her legs were going to collapse—if her feet kept going that long. They had had patients up to Theatre, emergency admissions, post-ops to deal with, discharges, and as if all that wasn’t enough the second wave of new admissions for Ross Hamilton’s Thursday-morning list arrived and needed settling and dealing with.
Gavin and Tom were on the go all day, too, their presence very much felt, and just before she went off duty two older men, presumably the consultants, came onto the ward.
One had white hair, the other fair with a touch of grey, but she realised the hair was deceptive. They were both only in their late thirties or early forties, and she wouldn’t mind betting half the patients were in love with them. Both big men, they radiated health and vitality, their bodies trim and fit, their faces animated in conversation.
Ladykillers, both of them, in their youth, she thought, and then as they laughed she gave a wry chuckle. In their youth? They were ladykillers now, and they could probably teach the average ‘youth’ a thing or two. Still, she was safe. They probably wouldn’t even notice her.
She was wrong. They stopped beside her, so tall that she had to tip her head back to look at them, and smiled. ‘Hello there,’ the white-haired man said, his voice low and soft with the gentle burr of an Edinburgh accent. She noticed absently that he had the loveliest, most searching grey-green eyes, and that he looked tired. Not a delegator, she decided, but a doer, a hands-on consultant.
‘Hello,’ she replied, liking him instantly.
