Knight on the Children's Ward

He’d been putting the job off, and when he’d finally accepted his mother’s offer to sort Imelda’s things, he had accepted also that with her help might come questions.

Questions that he couldn’t properly answer.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Were you arguing?’ Estella asked, and then tried to hold back a sigh when Ross shook his head. ‘I loved Imelda,’ Estella said.

‘I know,’ Ross said, and that just made it harder—Imelda had loved his family and they had loved her too. ‘She was funny and kind and I really, really thought I could make it work. I can’t honestly think of one thing that was wrong…It was just…’

‘Just what, Reyes?’ His mother was the only person who called him that. When he had arrived in Australia aged seven, somehow his real name had slipped away. The other children, fascinated by the little dark-haired, olive-skinned Spanish boy who spoke no English, had translated Reyes to Ross—and that was who he had become.

Ross Wyatt.

Son of Dr George and Mrs Estella Wyatt. Older brother to Maria and Sophia Wyatt.

Only it was more complicated than that, and all too often far easier not to explain.

Sometimes he had to explain—after all, when he was growing up people had noticed the differences. George’s hair, when he had had some, had been blond, like his daughters’. George was sensible, stern, perfectly nice and a wonderful father—but it wasn’t his blood that ran in Ross’s veins.

And he could tell from his mother’s worried eyes that she was worried that was the problem.

Estella’s brief love affair at sixteen with a forbidden Gitano, or Romany, had resulted in Reyes. The family had rallied around. His grandmother had looked after the dark baby while his mother had worked in a local bar, where, a few years later, she’d met a young Australian man, just out of medical school. George had surprised his rather staid family by falling in love and bringing home from his travels in Europe two unexpected souvenirs.

George had raised Reyes as his own, loved him as his own, and treated him no differently from his sisters.

Except Reyes, or rather Ross, was different.

‘It wasn’t…’ His voice trailed off. He knew his mother was hoping for a rather more eloquent answer. He knew that she was worried just from the fact she was asking, for his mother never usually interfered. ‘There wasn’t that…’ He couldn’t find the word but he tried. He raked his mind but couldn’t find it in English and so, rarely for Ross, he reverted to his native tongue. ‘Buena onda.’ His mother tensed when he said it, and he knew she understood—for that was the phrase she used when she talked about his father.

His real father.

Buena onda—an attraction, a connection, a vibe from another person, from that person.

‘Then you’re looking for a fairytale, Reyes! And real-life fairytales don’t have happy endings.’ Estella’s voice was unusually sharp. ‘It’s time you grew up. Look where buena onda left me—sixteen and pregnant.’

Only then, for the first time in his thirty-two years did Ross glimpse the anger that simmered beneath the surface of his mother.

‘Passion flares and then dims. Your father—the father who held you and fed you and put you through school—stands for more than some stupid dream. Some gypsy dream that you—’ She stopped abruptly, remembering perhaps that they were actually discussing him. ‘Imelda was a good woman, a loyal and loving partner. She would have been a wonderful wife and you threw it away—for what?’

He didn’t know.

It had been the same argument all his life as his mother and George had tried to rein in his restless energy. He struggled with conformity, though it could hardly be called rebellion.

Grade-wise he had done well at school. He had a mortgage, was a paediatrician—a consultant, in fact—he loved his family, was a good friend.

On paper all was fine.

In his soul all was not.

The mortgage wasn’t for a bachelor’s city dwelling—though he had a small one of those for nights on call, or when he was particularly concerned about a patient—no, his handsome wage was poured into an acreage, with stables and horses, olive and fruit trees and rows of vines, and not another residence in sight.

Just as there had been arguments about his attitude at school, even as a consultant he found it was more of the same. Budgets, policies, more budgets—all he wanted to do was his job, and at home all he wanted to do was be.

There was nothing wrong that he could pin down.

And there was no one who could pin him down.

Many had tried.

‘Should I take this round to her?’ Ross asked.

‘Put it in the cupboard for now,’ Estella said. ‘If she comes for her things, then at least it is all together. If she doesn’t…’ She gave a little shrug. ‘It’s just some clothes. Maybe she would prefer no contact.’

He felt like a louse as he closed the zipper. Packed up two years and placed it in the cupboard.

‘Imelda wanted to decorate the bedroom.’ Task over, he could be a bit more honest. ‘She’d done the bathroom, the spare room…’ It was almost impossible to explain, but he had felt as if he were being slowly invaded. ‘She said she wanted more of a commitment.’

‘She cared a lot about you, Reyes…’

‘I know,’ he admitted. ‘And I cared a lot about her.’

‘It would have hurt her deeply, you ending it.’

It had. She had cried, sobbed, and then she had hit him and he’d taken it—because he deserved it, because she had almost been the one. He had hoped she was the one and then, when he could deny no longer that she wasn’t…What was wrong with him?

‘She loved you, Reyes!’

‘So I should have just let it carry on? Married her…?’

‘Of course not,’ Estella said. ‘But it’s not just Imelda…’

It wasn’t.

Imelda was one of a long line of women who had got too close—and, despite his reputation, Ross hated the pain he caused.

‘I don’t like it that my son hurts women.’

‘I’m not getting involved with anyone for a while,’ Ross said.

‘You say that now…’

‘I’ve never said it before,’ Ross said. ‘I mean it; I’ve got to sort myself out. I think I need to go back.’ It took a lot of courage to look at his mum, to watch her dark eyes widen and her lips tighten. He saw the slight flinch as he said the words she had braced herself to hear for many years. ‘To Spain.’

‘What about your work in Russia?’ Estella asked. ‘All your annual leave is taken up with that. You said that it’s the most important thing to you.’

It had been. As a medical student he had taken up the offer to work in a Russian orphanage on his extended summer break, with his fellow student Iosef Kolovsky. It had changed him—and now, all these years on, much of his spare time was devoted to going back. Even though Iosef was married now, and had a new baby, Ross had been determined to return to Russia later in the year. But now things had changed.

‘I want to go to Spain, see my abuelos…’ And that was a good reason to go—his grandparents were old now—but it didn’t quite appease his mother. ‘I’m going back next month, just for a few weeks…’