Neurosurgeon . . . and Mum!. Kate Hardy

once he touched Amy Rivers, he’d want more. A lot more. And it would get way, way too complicated.

      She’d vanished by the time he’d finished playing with Buster. He made himself a sandwich, checked the dog’s water bowl was full then headed out on his house calls.

      ‘I hear young Amy’s back,’ Mrs Poole, his first patient, said as he removed the dressing to check the ulcer just above her ankle.

      He looked up at her, surprised. ‘Wow. The grapevine’s fast around here.’ Amy couldn’t have arrived more than a couple of hours ago.

      ‘Well, a car with a registration plate saying “AMY” parked outside Marsh End House has to be hers, doesn’t it?’ She shrugged. ‘Not that she’s been down here for a while now. Funny that she decides to turn up this week, with Joe and Cassie just off to Australia.’

      Tom didn’t appreciate gossip about himself and he had a feeling that Amy would be the same. ‘She’s house- and dog-sitting for her aunt and uncle.’

      ‘I thought that was what you were supposed to be doing.’

      ‘You know what they say. Many hands make light work,’ Tom said with a smile, and concentrated on checking the ulcer for granulation.

      ‘Used to spend every summer here, she did. Too quiet by miles for the first week, but by the end of the summer she was getting as grubby as the boys and plotting all kinds of things with young Beth.’

      Too quiet. Just as his own daughter was. But Amy had had her cousins to help her out of her shell. Perdy had nobody except him, and so far he was a big fat failure.

      He changed the subject swiftly. ‘I’m really pleased with the way you’re healing. So you’ve been keeping your leg up, as I suggested?’

      ‘Yes. Though I hate sitting still.’ Mrs Poole tutted. ‘I’ve never been one to sit and do nothing.’

      ‘Gentle exercise is fine,’ Tom said. ‘But if you overdo it, the ulcer will take longer to heal. You don’t have to sit around all the time, just make sure you rest with your leg up for half an hour, three or four times a day, to take the pressure off your veins.’ He cleaned the ulcer gently then put a fresh dressing on, topping it with an elastic bandage. ‘Can you circle your ankle for me, Mrs Poole, so I can check that bandage isn’t too tight for you?’

      She did so, and he smiled. ‘That’s fine. I’ll come and see you tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, if it starts to hurt more or your foot feels hotter or colder, or you notice it’s changed colour, ring the surgery straight away—please don’t wait.’ In his experience, elderly people fell into two camps: the ones who were lonely, desperately wanted company and would ring up if they so much as cut their finger; and those who didn’t want to make a fuss and would leave it until their condition had really deteriorated before they admitted that they needed help. Mrs Poole was definitely one of the latter, or her ulcer wouldn’t have spread so badly.

      ‘I’ll be fine, Doctor,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to worry about me.’

      He rather thought he did. ‘I want a promise from you,’ he said, giving her his most charming smile, ‘or I’ll have to go and chat to your neighbours and ask them to set up a roster to check on you every couple of hours between now and my next visit.’

      ‘You can’t bother them with that!’ She looked aghast.

      ‘Promise me, then.’ He squeezed her hand gently. ‘I appreciate you want to be independent, which is great, but there is such a thing as being too independent. If you catch a medical condition in the early stages, it’s usually easier and quicker to treat it—and it won’t hurt you as much.’

      ‘I’m not like that Betty Jacklin—straight on the phone to the surgery, convinced she’s got a brain tumour, every time she has a headache.’ Mrs Poole rolled her eyes.

      Tom hid a smile. He’d already been warned about Betty Jacklin, but hadn’t come across her yet. ‘I can’t possibly comment on other patients. I know you wouldn’t call me for something little. But I also know you’re the sort who’s too stubborn to ring when she really ought to.’ He squeezed her hand gently again. ‘And guess which kind of patient I lose more sleep over?’

      Mrs Poole sighed. ‘All right. I promise I’ll call you.’

      ‘Thank you.’ He smiled at her. ‘Do you want me to make you a cup of tea before I go?’

      She shook her head. ‘You don’t have time for that, Doctor.’

      He glanced at his watch. ‘Actually, I do.’ It would only take a couple of minutes. And if it meant getting her to drink a bit more, he was all for it. Too many of his elderly patients didn’t drink enough and ended up with bladder in-fections—which, if not treated fast enough, led to fever and confusion and being cared for in hospital until the antibiotics did their job, not to mention a huge worry for their families. He believed in pre-empting things where he could. ‘So, if I remember rightly, that’s a dash of milk and half a teaspoon of sugar?’

      ‘You’re a good lad, Dr Ashby,’ Mrs Poole said. ‘And, with your looks, you must have the women lining up for you.’

      Tom just smiled. He hadn’t noticed any line of women—and even if there was one, he wasn’t interested. His daughter came first. And he’d never put himself in the position where his heart could be broken again.

      

      At half past three, Amy was sitting at Joe’s desk, starting to look through the box of Joseph’s papers, when Buster left his position at her feet and bounded through the door, tail wagging.

      Clearly Tom was home.

      She could hear a child talking. Odd: Tom hadn’t mentioned anything about a child. Unless maybe his wife was doing some extra tuition and one of her pupils had come back with her?

      Better get the introductions over with, she thought, and headed out of the office. She followed the sound of voices to the kitchen, noting the child’s rucksack hanging up in the hallway. And she blinked in surprise when she walked into the kitchen. There was a little girl sitting at the table—around eight years old, Amy judged—with a glass of milk and a book in front of her. She had Tom’s colouring and that same shy, slightly hesitant smile.

      Buster pattered across the tiles to her, alerting Tom to the fact that he and the little girl were no longer alone. He turned round and smiled at Amy. ‘Hello, Amy. Let me introduce you. This is Perdita—everyone calls her Perdy.’

      Perdy was clearly Tom’s daughter, then, not his wife.

      Carrie hadn’t mentioned anyone else. So where was the child’s mother? Was Tom divorced? But Amy knew it wasn’t that common for fathers to be given custody of the children, which meant that the break-up must’ve been messy with a capital M.

      No wonder Perdy looked quiet and withdrawn.

      Amy remembered another little girl being like that, too. A little girl whose father had been awarded custody. A little girl she’d grown to love so much, as if Millie were her own daughter rather than her intended stepchild-to-be.

      But then Colin had suggested that they move to the States, to let Millie see more of her mother. And while Amy had been tying up loose ends in England, thinking that she was going to start a new life with the man and child she loved, Colin had changed his mind. He’d called Amy with the news that he and his ex had decided to give their marriage another go, for their daughter’s sake. That had been hard enough to take; but then he’d added that he thought that a clean break would be the best thing for Millie.

      Amy knew it had been the right thing to do, for the little girl’s sake. But it had ripped her world apart, and she’d retreated into work afterwards, concentrating on her career rather than her private life.

      Which had worked just fine—until her career had gone so badly wrong, too.

      OK, so this wasn’t quite the same. She wasn’t in any