The Spice of Life

‘Why, tired?’

He grinned. ‘No, I was hoping you’d join me for that drink.’

She was caught without defences, her mind still playing with the idea of being his darling girl.

‘Ah—drink?’ she said helplessly.

‘Yes, you know, as in go into a pub and order something in a glass and eat a few nuts and so on.’

She wasn’t sure about the ‘and so on’, but there didn’t seem to be any way out of it without being churlish.

‘Um—perhaps just a quick one …’

‘Am I treading on anyone’s toes?’

Toes?’

‘Yes, toes. As in, some resident lover or whatever—perhaps Mick O’Shea?’

‘Mick?’ She was startled.

He shrugged. ‘You were all over each other on Monday morning.’

‘Oh, that—no, Mick’s a friend.’

His brow arched delicately.

‘Truly! I’ve known him for years.’ She eyed Jack suspiciously. ‘What about you? I don’t suppose you’re married?’ she said bluntly.

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Are you crazy? Why would I want a wife?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Why would anybody want a wife? I’m sure there are all manner of reasons.’

He chuckled. ‘None good enough for me, I’m afraid. Never again.’

‘So you’re divorced?’

He nodded.

‘I’m not going to bed with you.’

He blinked, and caught the smile before it got away. ‘Of course not.’

‘I mean it!’

He grinned wickedly. ‘What d’you think I’m going to do, drag you behind a hanging basket and rip your knickers off?’

The image was so outrageous that she giggled. ‘All right. What time?’

‘Seven-thirty? Do you want me to pick you up?’

‘On that bike? No way, José. Just tell me where.’

‘Rose and Crown, Tuddingfield?’

She nodded. ‘OK. I’ll see you there at seven-thirty.’

Deciding she was crazy, she made her way back to her room, collected her things and was just about to leave when a man carrying a young boy walked up to the doors.

He looked a little lost, and Kathleen went up to him.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘Oh—it’s my son—he’s got cystic fibrosis, and my wife’s gone away for a few days with a friend for a break. I thought I could cope, but they sent him home from school and I just can’t seem to shift the stuff off his lungs.’

Indeed, the child was rattling and bubbling, coughing weakly and obviously in great discomfort.

Kathleen put her arm round the man’s shoulders and led him in.

‘Come round here with me, and we’ll find a physio to take care of things for you. What’s his name? Do we have any notes on him in the hospital?’

‘Anthony Craven—yes, you’ve got stacks of notes. I’m sorry, I feel such a fool. I was sure I could cope but the CF clinic people had all gone home by the time I realised I couldn’t manage—’

‘Look, don’t worry, it really isn’t a problem. I’ll get a physio. You sit in here with Anthony and I’ll be back in a tick.’

She put him in the cubicle and went back to the nursing station to phone the physiotherapy department.

After a few seconds she glanced at her watch in disgust. It was just after six, long after the time she should have gone off duty, and that was exactly what all the physiotherapists had done. She would have handed over to one of her colleagues, but somehow she just felt this case needed her personal attention.

She called the switchboard and asked them to page the physio on call, and was told she was in ITU with a patient and likely to be tied up for at least half an hour.

She cradled the phone with more force than strictly necessary, just as Jack Lawrence strolled past in his black leather gear.

‘Problems?’ he asked.

She glanced up. Nothing compared to what her heart did when she looked at him like that. He was long overdue for a shave, and the combination of the dark stubble, the tousled hair from the theatre cap and the warm smell of leather was a potent combination.

She shook her head. ‘Not really. I want a physio for a kid with cystic fibrosis, but she’s down in ITU and won’t be free for half an hour.’

Something happened in his eyes then, some kind of inner battle. It was evidently resolved, because a sort of gentle resignation settled over his features.

‘Where is he? I’ll do it.’

‘In Three, but are you sure you know——?’

He laughed, a short, strained little laugh. ‘You really don’t have any faith at all in me, do you?’ he said, and his voice sounded strangely sad. ‘Trust me. It isn’t something you easily forget,’ he added enigmatically, and with that he turned on his heel and strode back down to his office, emerging a moment later back in his normal working clothes.

The harassed father was only too glad to hand over as Jack tenderly lifted the boy, laid him on his side over some foam blocks and firmly but gently percussed his chest.