Doctor And Son. Maggie Kingsley

I have chips for my tea, too?’ Jamie asked as she helped him on with his coat. ‘And beans—can I have beans with my chips?’

      Beans and chips, and chocolate pudding. The hospital nutritionist would faint clean away at the sound of that diet, but if she said no she’d never get Jamie to the centre.

      ‘OK, but only for today as a special treat,’ she replied, salving her conscience. ‘Now, remember—’

      ‘Not to sing or shout going down the stairs, ’cos Mrs Patterson will come out wearing her grumpy face.’

      Annie’s heart constricted as she stared down at her son. He was only four. He should be able to run and play whenever he wanted, but their landlady had made her feelings only too plain when they’d moved into the flat above hers.

      ‘It was bad enough when I rented the place to those university students,’ she’d sniffed. ‘Playing their stereos at all hours of the day and night, never shutting a door when they could bang it, but I refuse to have my eardrums blasted by a screaming child. No offence meant, Ms Hart, but I’ve always been a firm believer in speaking my mind.’

      And speak it she had. Constantly.

      But at least not today. For once Annie managed to tiptoe down the stairs and past Mrs Patterson’s door without having to endure her usual catalogue of complaints. She’d undoubtedly have to hear them when she arrived home this afternoon, but at least she’d missed them this morning. Now all she had to do was to get Jamie to the centre, and herself to the hospital on time.

      A task she had about as much hope of achieving as flying, she realised, glancing down at her watch with a groan.

      ‘Where have you been?’ Liz exclaimed when Annie flew into the staffroom at ten past eight. ‘I’ve been stalling for you as long as I could but—’

      ‘Is Woody blowing a fuse?’ Annie interrupted, throwing her coat over one of the staffroom chairs.

      ‘Luckily for you she’s been on the telephone for the past fifteen minutes, trying to discover what’s happened to the X-rays she ordered for Mrs Douglas. It’s Gideon I’ve been stalling, and by now he must think you’ve got severe bladder problems.’

      ‘Bladder problems?’ Annie repeated, pausing in the middle of dragging on her white coat.

      ‘I had to come up with something to explain your absence so I said you were in the loo. Now, for heaven’s sake, get yourself along to his consulting room fast.’

      Annie needed no second bidding. She was out the door, running. Head down, heart racing, along the corridor, round the corner, and to her utter horror slap bang into Gideon yet again.

      ‘I’m sorry—so sorry,’ she gasped, disentangling herself from his arms as fast as she could, red-cheeked with embarrassment.

      ‘I’m not.’ He grinned. ‘In fact, I think I could get to quite like this. Not every day, of course—you can have too much of a good thing—but once in a while? Yup, I reckon I could live with that.’

      He was joking—she knew he was—trying to make her feel better—but it didn’t help.

      Why did this have to keep on happening to her? She never used to be so inefficient. She never used to be so clumsy, and yet in less than a week at the Belfield she’d been late twice, trashed the contents of a tea trolley and now cannoned into her boss for the second time.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said unhappily. ‘I know I’m late again.’

      ‘I wondered about that. Liz kept telling me you were in the toilet, and I was beginning to think you might need to see me in a professional capacity.’

      He was smiling but, try as she may she couldn’t smile back. ‘Please, don’t blame Sister Baker—she was only trying to help. I had…There were problems at home.’

      All amusement instantly disappeared from his face. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

      Just my son realising that when I leave him I’m going to be gone for hours. Just the question of what am I going to do tomorrow, or the day after, if the same thing happens again.

      Tell him, her mind whispered, he’ll understand.

      But what if he didn’t? The male doctors at the Manchester Infirmary had been anything but sympathetic when a female doctor was late, or distracted, because of family problems.

      ‘Unreliable’ had been one of their favourite comments. ‘Not sufficiently committed’ had been another. And always the implication had been the same. That it was a mistake to employ a female doctor with a young child.

      ‘No, it was nothing serious,’ she said. ‘Everything’s fine.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘Do I have time to look at the files of some of the patients you’ll be seeing this morning?’

      He knew she was changing the subject. He also looked as though he’d very much like to press her on why she’d been late, but abruptly he turned on his heel and led the way into his consulting room.

      ‘Take your pick.’

      She stared at his desk. Her pick? Good grief, there had to be at least fifty—if not more—files sitting there.

      ‘How long did you say this clinic was supposed to last?’ she asked involuntarily, only to colour when she suddenly realised how that might sound. ‘Not that it matters, of course. I mean, that’s what I’m here for—to learn, to assist. And I know we don’t work nine to five, and—’

      ‘Annie, I wasn’t about to whip out a placard with the words “Poor attitude—lack of commitment” written on it,’ he snapped. ‘So relax, OK?’

      The colour on her cheeks darkened. ‘Yes. Sorry.’

      ‘Half of those files belong to patients we’ll be seeing today. The other half belong to patients I’ll be seeing on Monday, and I’m taking them home with me for a quick read-through at the weekend.’

      ‘Oh, right.’ She nodded. ‘Sorry.’

      And I wish to heaven you’d stop apologising to me, Gideon thought, selecting the top file from the pile on his desk and handing it to her. The woman he’d met on the stairs might have got his intentions all wrong but at least she’d had some spunk about her. Lord, but she’d been angry that day, her blue eyes flashing, contempt plain on her face, but he’d liked her. He still did, but not when she behaved like some stressed-out, scared rabbit.

      She’d said there’d been trouble at home. Could she be looking after an infirm or elderly relative—was that why she’d been late this morning? Her file might tell him but to get it he’d have to ask Admin, and he knew only too well what the gossiping girls who worked there would make of such a request.

      ‘Mr Caldwell’s interested in Annie Hart,’ they’d snigger, and they’d be right.

      But not in the silly, lovesick way they would mean. His interest was purely professional. Based solely on safeguarding the best interests of the department. And yet as he saw a small frown suddenly crease her forehead he couldn’t help but wonder what it would take to make her smile—really smile. Dammit, she couldn’t be any more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight, and yet she looked as though she carried all the cares of the world on her shoulders.

      ‘Annie—’

      ‘Miss Bannerman has fibroids?’

      Well, it wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind as a topic of conversation, but if talking about their first patient would make her relax he was more than willing to go with it.

      ‘Carol was referred to me six months ago because of excessive menstrual pain and bleeding, and bladder problems.’

      ‘The bladder problems would be due to the pressure of her fibroids?’ she suggested, and he nodded.

      ‘Fibroids—or