The Pregnant Registrar. Carol Marinelli

pulling the teabag out before it assumed mud-like proportions.

      ‘Sugar?’

      Lydia nodded. ‘Just one, though.’

      ‘Why didn’t you say?’ Corey asked finally as he placed a steaming mug in front of her, watching as Lydia took a hesitant sip, closing her eyes as the hot sweet liquid hit its mark, warm and soothing and, thankfully, staying put. ‘Why didn’t you just say that you weren’t very well?’

      Lydia took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t want you to think I was making excuses.’ She gave a brief shrug. ‘Look, the hospital’s been fantastic. I can’t believe I got the job, given the circumstances.’ She registered his frown. ‘Pregnancy doesn’t normally work in one’s favour when looking for a job.’

      ‘But it did in this case?’

      Lydia shrugged. ‘I’ve got a full-time position for three months while Jackie Gibb’s off on maternity leave, and then, when I come back, we’ll job share. Dr Browne was forward thinking enough to realise that, rather than lose Jackie altogether, job share might be the solution. Most part-time jobs are filled by mothers.’

      ‘Which you soon will be?’

      Her rather nervous smile didn’t go unnoticed. ‘Apparently so.’ She looked down at her softly swollen stomach, disguised under baggy theatre blues but still pretty evident none the less. ‘I’ve got four months to go.’

      It was Corey frowning now. ‘I thought morning sickness only lasted for three months or so.’

      ‘So did I,’ Lydia groaned. ‘Apparently I’m the exception to the rule, though it’s not as bad as it was. At least now it’s living up to its name and only confined to the mornings.’

      ‘You had it pretty bad, then?’ Corey asked as Lydia grimaced.

      ‘It was awful. For the most part it’s gone now, but for some reason, within half an hour of stepping into a hospital, no matter how well I feel…’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘I’ll spare you the details. But once it’s over, it’s over, at least until the next day.’

      ‘Must be the smell,’ Corey mused. ‘My sister used to say just the smell of the place made her feel dizzy every time she came to see me at work.’

      ‘Used to?’ Lydia looked up, hopeful Corey was about to reveal his sister’s secret, a remedy perhaps that she hadn’t heard about, but from his stance she soon realised she’d picked up on something rather personal and dropped the subject as Corey deftly ignored her question, standing up and gesturing towards the door. ‘How about I give you that handover?’

      Taking a last quick sip of her tea, Lydia stood up and for the first time since their awkward meeting they managed a simultaneous smile. ‘About before,’ Lydia started, but Corey waved a large hand dismissively.

      ‘Forget it. Now, I know there was a reason…’

      ‘I—I meant the first-name business,’ Lydia stammered. ‘I really do prefer Lydia—I don’t know what I must have been thinking.’

      ‘Hormones.’ Corey winked.

      ‘That’s a terribly politically incorrect thing to say.’ Lydia grinned, stepping through the door he held open for her.

      ‘Oh, there’s plenty more where that came from.’

      The same light-hearted chatter continued out on the ward, from Corey at least, various nurses looking up and smiling, introducing themselves as Lydia slowly worked her way around the room. Lydia tried to smile, tried to come up with the odd witty response or friendly greeting, but it was as if her mouth didn’t know how to move any more. She could feel the sweat on her palms as she dug her nails into them, feeling horribly awkward and exposed and praying for a fast forward when all in the unit was familiar.

      Special Care Units were intimidating at the best of times, but Corey obviously ran the place well. Somehow there was a balance between quiet efficiency and relaxed friendliness which was no mean feat given the direness of some of the babies’ health and the anxious parents taking each painful step along with their child.

      ‘Patrick Spence.’ Corey stopped at the incubator where they had first met. ‘He’s six days old now…’ his eyes moved to the little boy still struggling with each ragged breath ‘…which makes it your one-week birthday tomorrow, little guy.’ Rubbing his hands with the mandatory alcohol, Corey put his hands inside the incubator and stroked the tiny infant’s cheek, and such was the tenderness in his touch Lydia felt her breath catch in her throat. They had stopped at every incubator, Corey had regaled the most painful tales but not for a second had he erred from professional detachment.

      Till now.

      Handling of sick infants was kept to a minimum, yet here was Corey gently stroking this baby’s brow and there was an expression on his harsh, sun-battered face Lydia couldn’t read.

      ‘We normally save the cuddles for Mum and Dad, but this little guy’s missing out on both counts,’ Corey offered by way of explanation, his eyes never leaving the babe. ‘But we’re more than happy to fill in, aren’t we, Patrick?’ Clearing his throat, he pulled his hand out, fiddling with the oxygen-flow meter for a moment or two before carrying on.

      ‘Patrick’s mother arrived at the labour ward in advanced second-stage labour. She’d received no antenatal care and a rapid labour followed. Born at thirty-two weeks gestation, as well as being premature, he was also small for dates. Multiple anomalies were noted at birth and on investigation he was found to have major cardiac defects.’

      He was silent for a moment as Lydia read the cardiac surgeon’s reports, along with endless reams of ultrasounds, chewing thoughtfully on her lips as she did so. ‘He’ll need surgery,’ she murmured, ‘and preferably sooner rather than later.’

      ‘Or later rather than sooner.’ The irony in Corey’s voice wasn’t aimed at her and Lydia didn’t have to look up to realise that. Babies this sick and this small were a constant juggling act: drop one ball and the whole lot came tumbling down. To survive, Patrick needed his heart defects corrected, but for his tiny body to make it through the complex surgery he desperately needed to gain some weight and stabilise medically if he was to stand a chance. ‘Twenty-four hours after admission his mother became agitated, and was finally diagnosed as suffering with alcohol withdrawal. Valium was given and the drug and alcohol liaison service notified.’

      ‘Patrick has foetal alcohol syndrome?’ As Corey nodded, Lydia looked back at the small babe. Foetal alcohol syndrome was one of the few completely preventable causes of congenital anomalies. The babies suffered various levels of handicap, from mild learning difficulties and facial deformities to cardiac problems and marked retardation, but from Lydia’s brief assessment of Patrick, his visible anomalies didn’t entirely fit the picture. Heading to the wash basin, she scrubbed her hands before examining the babe more thoroughly.

      ‘Have we sent off for a DNA work-up?’ Lydia asked, examining Patrick’s hand and feet, peering closely at his face and taking in the almond-shaped eyes and low-set ears.

      ‘We have,’ Corey responded, and for a second as she looked up Lydia thought she saw a flicker of admiration in those guarded green eyes. ‘What do you think?’

      Lydia gave a brief shrug but it was far from dismissive. ‘He looks like a trisomy baby; of course Down’s syndrome is a far more palatable diagnosis title than foetal alcohol syndrome, but in this case I think it could be both.’

      ‘It’s a tough call,’ Corey said thoughtfully, ‘but I’m actually glad to hear someone say it. As soon as Jenny, the mother, started to show signs of alcohol withdrawal Patrick was basically labelled as an FAS baby, but I think it might be a touch more complicated, I guess we’ll have to wait for the labs, and on current form we could be waiting another couple of weeks.’

      ‘How is his mother coping with the news?’

      ‘She won’t come and see him. Apparently Jenny’s admitted she