Love Without Measure

It seemed they were old friends—the boy a frequent visitor to the paediatric ward. This time, though, Andrew agreed with Patrick. It had been a little too close for comfort, and they were erring on the safe side.

Just as he left the department Jack and Kathleen Lawrence came back in, staring at the trolley in surprise.

‘Was that Simeon Wilding?’

‘Yes—asthma attack. He arrested,’ Patrick told them economically.

‘What?’ Jack looked shocked.

Patrick smiled slightly. ‘He’s OK—well, apart from a rib I may have cracked. He’s going to Paediatric ITU for a couple of days, just to be on the safe side. He stopped breathing, but he’s spoken to us and he’s OK—at least for now.’

Jack’s mouth tipped into a cynical curve. ‘Of course he is—after all, it’s only asthma.’

Anna heard the bitterness in his voice and understood it. Asthma was so common that it tended to be ignored, underestimated, almost brushed aside until a crisis forced it into view.

An event like this brought you up hard against reality, she thought. Most of their critical asthmatics made it, but every now and again they would lose a patient to it, even though it was ‘only asthma’.

They all felt so helpless then, and Jack hated being helpless. Patrick, too, she realised, looking at them as they shared a frustrated smile.

‘Oh, well, we do what we can. Well done for saving him,’ Jack said, and rested his hand on Patrick’s shoulder.

‘I’ve been meaning to give you a guided tour of the department all morning—but I guess you’ve seen Crash now?’

Patrick laughed. ‘Yes—thank you.’

‘How about a coffee?’ Kathleen suggested.

Just then the phone rang, and as one they all turned to look at it, then shrugged.

‘So who needed coffee anyway?’ Kathleen said philosophically, and picked up the phone.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_602b1a55-8c4a-5571-bcd6-ccf2cff43be3)

PATRICK stood up to leave. The elderly man in the chair by the window regarded him without curiosity.

‘Are you going now?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

The old boy shook his head. ‘Very kind of you, I’m sure, but I can’t see why you should want to.’

Patrick quelled the pain. ‘Would you rather I didn’t come?’ he asked quietly.

‘Oh, no. I enjoy your company, young fella. Too many old girls in this place for my liking. No, I was thinking of you. I just can’t see the attraction in talking to an old codger like me.’

Patrick smiled, a sad half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

‘I find you very interesting. You’ve had a fascinating life.’

The man snorted. ‘You must have a very boring life, young man, if you find mine fascinating. Very boring.’

Patrick thought back over the last few years, and gave a wry, quiet laugh. ‘It’s quite exciting enough for me. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

They shook hands formally, and Patrick turned to leave. As he did so the man called him back.

‘Patrick?’ he said.

He turned towards him again. ‘Yes?’

‘I don’t know who you are, young man, but I’d be proud if you were my son.’

Patrick’s face twisted slightly. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you very much. Goodnight.’

He went out, waving a greeting at the sister who was busy wheeling another resident through the grounds, and slipped behind the wheel of his car—his father’s car, in fact.

For a moment he remained motionless, letting the pain ease away, giving himself time. Then he started the car and drove back to the lovely Tudor house where he had grown up, and where he was now staying with his mother.

She was in the front garden when he pulled up, and she straightened and went to greet him with a kiss. ‘How was he?’ she asked.

Patrick shrugged. The same.’

‘Still doesn’t know you?’

He shook his head. His eyes blurred, fogging his vision, and he blinked hard. ‘I miss him,’ he said unevenly.

‘So do I,’ his mother said sadly. Oh, Patrick, I’m so glad you’re home.’

They hugged each other, drawing comfort from the contact, sharing their sorrow. The lump in Patrick’s throat grew, and he eased away.

‘I’ll put the car in the garage, then I need to change.’

‘Don’t be long. I want to hear all about your day.’

He didn’t doubt it. He put the car away and went in through the side door into the converted stable-block that had been turned into a self-contained annexe for guests. He had refused to stay in the house with his mother, preferring instead to maintain his independence and privacy while still being close at hand.

Now, as he stripped in the airy bedroom and wandered through to the little bathroom to shower, he was glad he had insisted. He needed room to himself, a little time and space to be quiet and recharge his batteries.

And God knows they were flat enough. This sudden deterioration of his father’s was the last straw, the Alzheimer’s that had been creeping up now claiming his memory and distancing him from the son who had travelled back across half the world to be near him.

A heavy sadness settled in Patrick’s chest, joining the other weight that lay there at all times, ignored for the most part but omnipresent, a constant anchor round his heart.

He turned on the shower and stood under the hot, stinging spray, his eyes closed, letting the water pelt over him and wash away the smell of the nursing-home.

Ideally he would like to bring his father home, but his mother couldn’t cope alone now her husband was incontinent. Perhaps, with Patrick’s help and the services of an agency nurse, it would be possible.

He would consider it, talk it over with his mother.

Half an hour later he joined her in the conservatory overlooking the garden that had been his father’s pride and joy. It was a mess, the weeds forming a mat between the perennials, the vegetable patch untended. Patrick had cut the grass at the weekend but already it seemed to be growing. His mother did what she could, but there was too much for one person to look after. They needed a gardener.