The Postcard: Escape to Cornwall with the perfect summer holiday read

‘I’m not angry,’ he said a little angrily, ‘but I can’t bear the thought that you – that we – nearly lost you.’

The door pushed open and a smiling nurse came in. ‘Good to see you awake, Mrs Canter. Mr Canter has been watching you all night.’

‘I know he has.’

The nurse, whose name badge said Sister Mairi McLeod, busied herself with taking Penny’s blood pressure, temperature and pulse. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’ she asked.

‘OK,’ said Penny.

‘Got a headache, I expect?’

Penny attempted humour. ‘Yes. Which is odd considering I took so many pills. You would have thought I’d have slept it off!’

Sister Mairi frowned. ‘You took enough to kill yourself. It wasn’t funny for the team in A & E who had to get them out of you.’

Penny was chastened. ‘Sorry.’ She glanced over at Simon, who was examining his hands. ‘When can I go home?’ Penny asked

‘After Dr Nickelson, the consultant psychiatrist, has assessed you.’

Psychiatrist? ‘I’m fine,’ said Penny, panicking a little. ‘I just needed some sleep and now I want to go home to my daughter, she’s only a baby. I don’t need a psychiatrist.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I’m not mad.’

Sister Mairi clicked the end of her Biro and began to write on the file of notes that hooked onto the end of the bed. Without looking up she said, ‘Let Dr Nickelson decide what’s what. Once he’s had a look at you, you’ll know when you can go home. I’m going to check your bloods again now. Hopefully you won’t have done any long-term damage. You’ve been lucky.’

Penny wasn’t sure she agreed.

At some point during the following minutes and hours Simon had gone in search of breakfast and a cup of tea and had returned with a copy of the Telegraph and the latest Vogue. He gave the magazine to Penny, who waved it away, and then settled in the plastic armchair to do the crossword. He made no attempt at conversation, which Penny appreciated; although she noticed that he was just staring blankly at the lines of text without reading. She didn’t want to face any of his sad-eyed questioning. She closed her eyes and spent the time drifting in and out of a pleasant slumber.

Just before lunch – she knew it was lunchtime because the smell of mince and onions was drifting through her door – a young man in a check shirt and corduroy trousers came smilingly into the room.

‘Hello, I’m Dr Nickelson. Consultant psychiatrist.’

Simon leapt to his feet and pumped hands with him. ‘Jolly good of you to come,’ he said, delighted, or so Penny thought, that at last there was a male in the room. Someone he could understand.

Dr Nickelson turned and smiled at Penny. ‘Mrs Canter.’ He shook her hand too and dragged a smaller chair up to the bedside. He had a file in one hand, which he opened and quickly scanned, reminding himself of the facts.

Penny lay silent.

‘May I call you Penny?’ he asked pleasantly.

She nodded.

He settled himself. ‘So. Let’s start with the hardest question. Why?’

Penny took a deep breath. ‘I have a young baby.’

‘How old?’

‘Just turned one. And she’s such a good girl but I get so tired. I just …’ Her voice broke. ‘I just wanted a good night’s sleep.’

‘Hm.’ He looked at her notes again. ‘With a large quantity of pills.’

She nodded. She could feel tears gripping her throat. She tried to swallow them down.

‘Have you had suicidal thoughts before?’

She paused, forcing the dreaded tears not to come. ‘I didn’t want to die – I just wanted the world to stop for a bit. So that I could get some rest.’

He smiled again and she saw the understanding in his eyes. ‘I think we all want that sometimes. You’re not mad.’

The tears raced up her throat and into her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. ‘Thank you,’ she croaked.

‘So, apart from managing a young baby, have there been any other difficulties recently?’

She wiped a trickle of snot from her nose. ‘Not really.’

Simon uncrossed his legs and leant forward, passing her a tissue. ‘That’s not true, Penny,’ he said. ‘What about work? And your mother?’

Dr Nickelson kept his eyes on Penny and waited.

She turned her eyes from Simon to Dr Nickelson and all of a sudden found her tears flowing unstoppably. She tried to compose herself. ‘Oh, I work in television and a programme I make has been cancelled.’ She stopped.

‘And your mother?’ prompted Dr Nickelson.

‘She, erm …’ Penny wiped her eyes with a fresh tissue then twisted it around her fingers. ‘She and I hadn’t spoken for a while, and – and she died. A couple of weeks ago I think.’

‘You think?’

‘My sister told me a few days ago and it was … It was a shock.’

‘I’m sure it was. Has there been the funeral yet?’

‘It happened without me knowing.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, no wonder you have been feeling so low. Just one of those events – new baby, problems at work or the death of a parent – would be enough to make anyone feel the way you do.’

‘I suppose.’ She looked at Simon. ‘I’m so sorry, Simon. So sorry.’ Her tears came again.

He blinked his large chocolate eyes behind his spectacles and got up, bending awkwardly to hug her prone body lying in the bed. ‘I’m sorry, too,’ he said. ‘I should have noticed how bad you were feeling. I’m so grateful that I’ve been given the chance to make things better for you. I could have …’ He fought the lump in his throat. ‘I could have lost you. But I know now, and we can get through this, together.’

Dr Nickelson talked a bit more about the tests they’d run. Her liver and kidneys were undamaged but she should get a lot of rest and do only the things she wanted to do. ‘More long baths, walks and time to heal,’ he said. ‘I’ll write to your GP and will see you once a week for the next month or so, after which we’ll see which is the best way forward.’

‘Not the Priory?’ she said as another small joke.

He smiled. ‘No. Not the Priory.’

‘When can I take her home?’ asked Simon.

Dr Nickelson looked from one to the other. ‘Well, as long as you promise to ring me or your GP or even the hospital if you feel the harmful thoughts coming back, I don’t see why you shouldn’t go home now.’