Disclaimer: I own none of the characters contained herein - I'm just playing with them.
Five Days
When she finally follows Matron through the corridors to her office, and the door closes, she sits and stares down at the hands twisted in her lap and she realises that her clothes are streaked with blood. A bright rash of it across her blouse, deep and dark and already stiffening in spots on her jacket and skirt. It's in the ridges of her fingers, caked into her nail-beds. She should wash it away but she can't bear to.
She takes the cup Matron gives her, holding it carefully but it still rattles in its saucer. The tea is very hot and far too sweet but she drinks it anyway, and for a moment its burn is numbing, she feels the sear across the back of her throat. But only for a moment. Katie always drinks her tea too hot and she's always telling her to let it cool first. She remembers Gordon, after Caroline's accident, telling her that he hadn't been able to bring himself to lie to his children, he had simply tried to avoid their questions. And she remembers after his car-crash when she had had to go home and tell them what had happened and Katie had stood very still, wide-eyed, and asked her if he'd been hurt the way her mother had been hurt. She had held the girl to her and promised her that he would be fine, that everything would be fine.
She pushes herself up, the tea sloshing out of the cup into the saucer.
'I should- The children-'
'Lizzie's taking care of them,' Matron says, her voice gentle, the special tone she only ever uses to patients in the very worst of circumstances.
Jill sits again. Tom and Katie rarely mention their mother and when they do it is abstract, someone of whose onetime existence they are aware but who they don't really remember anymore. They know what Gordon has told them and seem to love this constructed memory of her for his sake. They are older now, old enough to understand what has happened; but Jonathan ... Jonathan is still so young and then there is Aisling, their daughter now of barely a day, and the thought that they may never have any memories of their father is unendurable. She refuses to think it.
The door opens and Sister Bridget creeps in, her face pale, riven, her eyes so swollen that they appear bruised. If every tear were a prayer, Jill thinks, then Gordon's survival would be assured just by the number that the nun has shed.
She doesn't notice the way that Sister Bridget won't quite meet Matron's eyes, or the way that the older woman looks between the two of them. Or if she does, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters now.
'Doctor...' The familiar sing-song lilt, the words fading into silence. Jill takes hold of her hand. It's a strong hand, sinewy, the skin work-roughened. They cling to each other.
When the door opens again it is Mr Rose, colouring the air with the usual scent of antiseptic and tobacco. She hears the drone of his voice, a white-noise sound but only one word is really heard: stable.
Gordon is stable. She smiles slightly at that, but not for the reasons anyone might think. No matter what happens, no matter how bad it gets or the turmoil he may be experiencing, Gordon is always stable - the occasional wobble notwithstanding.
The next twenty-four hours will be critical. Twenty-four hours, one full day. She remembers something else Gordon had told her after Caroline had been injured: that he was taking it one day at a time. She decides to do the same.
1.
The pretty blonde with the mane of long hair had been talking without cessation for fully five minutes and Jill found herself wondering two things: if the girl ever paused for breath, and if Doctor Alway had actually heard one word that had been said.
'Thank you, Lizzie,' he murmured, vague, during a sudden and unexpected break in the torrent. He got his hand under Jill's elbow, steered her away. 'A sweet girl, but...'
Jill smiled, tight, nodded.
A cottage hospital had never been the dream. In the days of medical school it had been all idealism and general hospitals and changing the world but life and time had brought changes. Now there was the thought that maybe, just maybe, in a place like this she could make a real difference. Dr Alway was decidedly old school and the facilities were variable but there was something about the place, a hint of the subversive in the air, despite the fearsome starching of the matron's cap - a termagant if ever Jill saw one.
The double-doors burst open, admitting a blast of frigid air and porters pushing a trolley that was immediately surrounded by nurses. The doors opened again, one man this time, dishevelled, a little breathless, his face and clothes streaked with a mixture of mud and blood. His eyes moved from the knot of white and royal blue to Dr Alway.
'Tractor overturned. Denbeigh's farm.' The words came in staccato bursts. 'Young Frank - his leg's in a hell of a mess.' He looked as though he had dug the young farmer out himself with his bare hands. 'Is Mister Rose still here?'
'He left for Ashfordly, but we'll call him back in.'
A tightening around the mouth. 'He'll be on the golf-course by now and I don't think Frank has that sort of time. Right, ask Matron to prepare the theatre, will you, Jim? I'll get started and his majesty can catch me up when he gets here. Will you anaesthetise?'
'Of course. Oh, Gordon... This is Jill Weatherill. Doctor Weatherill, Doctor Ormerod. She's here for the interview,' Alway added, weighting each word.
The man Jill now identified as Dr Gordon Ormerod moved his gaze from his colleague to her and only then noticed her for the first time and he blinked at her, his face curiously expressionless. Of course, she thought with a resigned bitterness that she had experienced too many times before, he wasn't expecting a woman doctor. She lifted her chin, stared back at him and something, a tremor, slight, ran through him; he shook himself and smiled suddenly. It seemed unforced, genuine. It was a nice smile.
'Doctor Weatherill.' He extended a hand and she took it, fingers warm and strong closing around hers. He released her and glanced back after his patient, his body angling away. 'I, uh... I'm sorry, perhaps we can talk later.'
She watched him run down the corridor.
'A one-man rescue service, our Doctor Ormerod.' Alway, indulgent, and then serious. 'And a first-rate physician. They wanted him in Leeds, you know, but he chose us.'
It was offered as the highest of recommendations: where Gordon Ormerod led others, surely, would wish to follow.
Alway put his hand under her elbow again, leading them deeper into the hospital. 'I'm sorry to have to cut this short, my dear; unless, that is you'd care to observe?'
'Yes, I'd like to.'
Farming accidents were bloody, in every sense, and this was notably so; the air in the small theatre was rich with the metallic tang of blood, so much blood, the smell of it settling on clothes and hair and skin. By the time the fabled Mr Rose arrived, trailing pipe-smoke and condescension, the worst of it was over. Afterwards, when Jill pulled off her mask and gown, she found herself next to Dr Ormerod again; the lines of exhaustion were written deep in his face but his eyes glittered. They looked at one another and for a moment there was collusion, intimacy, the shared joy of a life saved. And then came the remembrance that they had only just met.
'Doctor Weatherill. I'm sorry about earlier- If you still have five minutes?'
She followed him to his office, took a seat on the side of the desk meant for patients; he lowered himself into his chair, savouring it, then leant forward. 'I'd like to tell you that not every day is like today, but...' He spread his hands across the desk, palms up, a helpless, apologetic gesture.
'But it would make a liar of you.'
That won a smile. 'More than somewhat.' He watched her for a moment, thoughtful. 'This work, what we do here... It isn't for everyone. It can be a lot harder than a general hospital.'
'And here was me getting into medicine for the glamour,' she remarked and his head tilted, acknowledging the point. 'I'm not afraid of a challenge and I think I could work well in a place like this.'
Another pause and he glanced at the file opened on his desk, looked back up at her. 'You specialise in gynaecology and obstetrics?'
'Yes. But that's not all I'm interested in. I can do whatever is needed; I want to.'
It was relief on his face. 'Thank God for that.' He smiled at her, wide; it really was a nice smile, and a nice face. She smiled back.
2.
It was a pleasant evening, the sky clear and the air deliciously cool against her skin. Jill pulled the wrap closer around her shoulders, descended the short flight of steps. Changing at work was not the best start ahead of a dinner-date but it was, logistically, the most practical and it gave her five minutes to spend in the Italian garden. She wandered along a path, enjoying a rare sense of aimlessness and then stopped short when she saw the figure sitting on one of the benches, staring out at nothing in particular. Like her, he seemed aimless but his was an air of melancholia, not something carefree. She hesitated, watched him, made up her mind and walked across.
'Gordon?'
He started, looked up and his eyes repeated their journey over her, taking in her dress and the hair that hung loose around her shoulders.
'Jill. You look very-' He stopped himself.
'Thanks,' wry. She stood for a moment, still, then sat beside him. 'I thought you'd be off home by now.'
He sighed. 'Yes, well... The children are visiting their grandparents.'
'And Caroline is with them?'
Another long moment and he was back to staring at that non-point somewhere along the horizon. 'Caroline will be at home, I should imagine.'
'Oh, I see.'
She had met Caroline Ormerod twice and the second meeting had confirmed her opinion after the first. Highly-strung. It was the sort of diagnosis men made about women that she particularly disliked, the sort that meant they were placating and patronising and she disliked very much that the same words were floating around her head but that didn't change anything. Caroline was a good-looking woman in an elegant, refined sort of way, and nervy, and oddly distant and Jill couldn't take to the woman. She studied his profile, played with the beading that edged the wrap that kept sliding down her arms.
'Gordon... I know it's none of my business but-' He turned to her and the thought came, treacherous and almost overwhelming, that there were a lot of things that she would like to say to him but that they would probably never be said; she would never have the chance. She pushed them down, turned herself back into the person that he could trust, that he might need. 'We are friends and friends do talk to each other.'
'I know.' There was defeat in the line of his shoulders, in the way he looked past her, not quite seeing her or anything else. 'There isn't much to say, really.'
They sat for a while and then he spoke again, his voice soft and with words that he didn't seem able to stop from coming out. 'She's unhappy. And I know that whatever I try to do to make it better, I'll get it wrong. Somehow. I just...' He took a breath. 'I just don't know what to do anymore.'
Jill studied the beadwork, the pattern blurring under her fierce gaze. Her face felt hot. She pushed that down, too. 'Look, I've never been married, I know that, I know I'm probably not the best person on relationships but I know enough to know that everyone goes through rough patches.'
'Rough patches... Yes.' He looked at her then and his face was stripped and it hurt to see it. 'How long does it go on for before you stop calling it a patch and start calling it what it is?'
She couldn't look at him like that; her eyes dropped and she shook her head. 'I don't know. I'm sorry, Gordon.'
He let out a breath. 'I think sorry just about sums it up.'
The breeze stirred her hair. It had turned colder and she shivered against it. Beside her, Gordon shifted, turned towards her slightly and one corner of his mouth turned up. 'You should probably get going, shouldn't you?'
'Yes, I-' She squinted at her watch. 'I'm already late.'
'Well, he won't mind.'
'Oh?' She stood, pulled the wrap firmly into position and held it high around her throat. 'What makes you so sure of that?'
'He'd be mad to.' He took in a breath, released it, smiled slightly. 'Have fun, Jill.'
He was still sitting on the bench when she left him, when she looked back from the boundary of the garden.
The dinner was not quite fun. Not really. He was a nice man, nice enough, but the conversation was hard work and she wasn't used to that. She had become accustomed to easy exchanges and a subtle, dry sense of humour that came at unexpected moments. Throughout dinner she was unengaged, distracted and when the end of the evening came she was relieved and when he tried to kiss her she stiffened and that was the absolute end of that.
Her thoughts were still treacherous, though, and before she went to sleep she couldn't stop all of the what ifs and imagining how it would feel with him in her arms and his lips against hers.
3.
The late-afternoon sun bathed the room in a haze of gold, glistening against the fresh paint and the dust-motes that spiralled lazily in the air. They had opened all of the windows, the weather blessedly dry and fine and perfect for their purposes. Music trickled faintly but the clearest sound was birdsong and the soft constant purr of a brush against the wall. Jill scraped out the paint from under her nails, replaced the rough cloth and enjoyed the feeling of contentment that was stronger than any she had ever known. The roll of green lawn stretching down, the trees casting deep shadows, she couldn't stop staring at the view. She loved that view.
Jill turned and spent a few moments watching her husband - the new word for him that she kept playing with, rolling it around her head and her mouth to get the feel of it - as he finished off. He worked with the same precise intensity he used at the hospital, even when perched on a ladder with paint spattered cross his shirt. Playing at being a bride, imagining each detail of her perfect wedding, that had never held any interest for her, even when she was a little girl. Their wedding, with its catalogue of disasters, and this weekend that was doing duty as a honeymoon would probably be most people's idea of a nightmare but for her it truly had been perfect. Turning this house into their home, simply being together without any distractions, it was all she needed.
Gordon put down his brush, tilted his head back to survey his completed handiwork, then looked down at her and smiled in response to her gaze, his eyes soft.
'One more wall and that's it.'
'Mmm.' Hands on hips she looked around, nodded. 'It's looking good, so far.'
'And just think,' he said, climbing down, 'it will look even better when we have furniture.'
'Oh, I don't know, I think dust sheets and this lovely battered old crate have a certain bohemian charm.'
His lips twitched. 'Well, they would certainly be a talking point. I'll cancel the delivery then, shall I?' He met her raised eyebrows and laughed. 'Drink?'
'That would be lovely.'
Her gaze drifted back to the stretch of green beyond the french windows and the deepening shadows. It would all be beautiful when they were finished. She heard the faint, dull clink of paint pots, then Gordon's footsteps out into the hall, down towards the kitchen. The room smelt strongly of paint and turpentine but she could still catch the scent of honeysuckle, heavy and sweet on the air. She roused herself. One more wall. If they took just a short break and got started it would be done by nightfall. She turned and stopped and a half-laugh rushed out on a breath. Gordon had made a start already. Her initials, and his, and a heart.
She was still standing in front of it when he came back, not with the tea she had been expecting but with wine.
'Are you trying to get me drunk, Doctor Ormerod?'
'Maybe. Would that work?' She laughed, took the glass, took a sip of the wine and enjoyed its fruitiness, its warmth and the warmth of her husband's arm around her. She put her head on his shoulder, nodded towards the artwork. 'Is that permanent?'
'The paint or the sentiment?'
Jill raised her head. 'Well, I'm hoping I don't have to check up on that one.' He kissed her then, something sweet and lingering against her mouth. She sighed, a faint hum in the back of her throat and settled into him again, his cheek resting against the top of her head.
'Even when it is covered up, we'll both still know it's there.'
Jill reached up, stroked his face with her fingers; their last stretch of wall, she thought, really could wait until tomorrow.
4.
Homework had been done, Katie's piano practice had finally stopped reverberating around the house and all was at peace. Jill kept thinking about Jean and Michael Westerly; the difference in the boy in the space of just a few days was astonishing - what a little care and attention could do and things could only improve for the mother and son. It seemed to have done Gordon good as well, working with them. She thought again of Michael, enthusiastic, announcing Gordon's arrival and mangling his name and almost running to let him in instead of running away. And Gordon with the record-player in his arms and she had remembered the countless reasons why she had fallen in love with this man, why she loved him so deeply still.
Jill shook out the cushions, straightened the pile of papers and magazines strewn across the coffee table. A happy family, yes, but not the tidiest.
She had been so relieved, so grateful that he hadn't been taken from her that it had blinded her to everything else; she hadn't noticed, or hadn't wanted to, that she was losing him in a wholly different way. But she thought again of the last few days and the weeks following that crisis point and maybe he hadn't gone that far away from her after all.
A creak on the stairs, footsteps along the hall, the door pushed open and was closed again and Gordon smiled at her. 'They're both in bed - can't guarantee that they'll both be asleep, though.' He watched her for a moment, head slightly on one side. 'You're looking thoughtful.'
'I was thinking about Jean and Michael.'
His face cleared. 'Ah. Extraordinary young man.'
'What was that album you gave him again?'
'Disraeli Gears, it came highly recommended.' She raised her eyebrows enquiringly and he clarified, grimacing slightly: 'By Alun.'
'Ah.'
'Music therapy, I suppose; it certainly seemed to make him feel better.'
'And how about you?'
'What, music therapy?'
She flashed him a look and the fine laughter-lines around his eyes deepened. 'I meant, how are you feeling?' Jill lightened her tone. 'Still terrible?'
'Oh, even worse. In fact, I think I've had a complete relapse.' He enjoyed teasing her a little; she enjoyed letting him. He moved towards her and she turned to him, leaning in as his hands came to rest on her waist. 'That reminds me: Mister Rose stopped by for a chat earlier.'
'Oh?' She dropped her gaze, engrossed by the tiny loose thread on his collar.
'Yes, he wanted to arrange time for, well, another chat. Man-to-man, he said. I have to go and play golf. -It isn't funny, Jill.'
Such bemusement and horror in his face and she couldn't help it; Jill covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking; she looked at him from between her fingers and pressed her lips together, blinked hard. 'It might not be that bad.'
'I've managed, successfully, to avoid golf courses so far.'
'Well, maybe you can... What do they call it? Proceed to the nineteenth hole?'
He rolled his eyes. 'A bar full of golfers. Wonderful.' A pause. 'I don't suppose you know anything about this?' Faintly accusing, and she straightened.
'I want to make sure that you are all right and I'm not above using any means necessary. You're very important to a lot of people, Gordon, not just me.'
He sighed. 'I know.' His hand raised to cover one of hers, fingers lacing together. 'It's just easier to give advice than it is to take it, I suppose. One of the hazards of the job.'
'Mm. And it's true that doctors make the worst patients.' She looked at him meaningfully and his lips quirked in response.
'Well, that is an area where you can definitely help me.'
'Oh? Would you like to try some music therapy?' she offered.
He considered it, one arm sliding fully around her. 'Only very soft music, some dim lights, perhaps...'
Jills eyes drifted closed. 'I think this is definitely crossing the boundaries of doctor-patient relationships.'
'I know,' he murmured. 'Shocking, isn't it?'
5.
She had never been particularly religious, never really thought that there was an omnipotent being shaping their lives but she thought it now, irrational, all-consuming, believed that this was her punishment. There was a tremor in her fingers as she smoothed down the clothes, putting them into piles, astonished anew at how small they were. Not so very long ago, it seemed, that Jonathan could fit into them and there was the horrible, insidious voice in her head asking her why, if she didn't want any more children, had she kept these? What had she been thinking?
What had she been thinking?
Fear of not being able to cope, of an added strain on lives that were already stressful-
What had seemed very real at the time now seemed inconsequential, stupid even. She thought about the child that she could have had and of the children that she would never have and the pressure behind her eyes was unendurable; grief filled her up, choking her, pressing against every part of her and she would break under it. Jill scrubbed at her face furiously, smearing the tears that kept welling from an unstoppable source.
It was cold up in the loft, one bare light-bulb illumining her dusty patch of floor and casting weird shadows around the walls, the sloping ceiling. It wasn't the cold that made her shiver.
'Jill?'
She started at the sound of his voice, half-turned. The meagre light from the landing below the trapdoor blocked by her husband's body. He pulled himself up the rest of way. 'What are you doing?'
'Sorting Jonathan's baby clothes out.' Her voice sounded thick, words pushing past the hard ball in her throat.
A soft exhalation of breath. 'That can wait.'
Jill shook her head. 'No point in hanging onto them, is there? Might as well just...' Everything was blurring, rushing in on her. 'There's a difference, you know, between thinking you don't want something and knowing that you can't have it. And I wanted our baby; I did-' She fought back the tears again; they were an indulgence that she did not deserve; she had brought all of this on herself.
His hand on her shoulder was gentle. Everything about him had been gentle, handling her as though she were fragile. 'I'm so sorry, sweetheart.'
'Oh, God, Gordon, how can you be kind?'
He was taken aback by the savagery in her tone. 'What would you rather I do, shout?'
'Yes! Be angry! Tell me how disappointed you are; how badly I've let you down!'
For a moment there was something like anger in his face, fleeting, a hardening of his features and he stared at her. But when he spoke his voice was soft and steady. 'The only way you could have let me down is if I'd lost you. We have three children, we have Katie and Tom and Jonathan, and I know that doesn't take the pain away but we have them and they adore you. For God's sake, Jill, you mean more to me than anything else in the world and if you don't know that... Well, then I've got things very wrong.'
Her hands balled around the tiny garments, fibres stretched taut, and she let them go. 'You haven't. You haven't got anything wrong.' There was safety in his arms, and warmth, and then the tears came and she sobbed against his shoulder. He held her as she wept, one hand tracing slow circles across her back. It felt like a great tide coursing through her until, finally, came the turn and she dragged in the first few deep, clear breaths she had had in days. Her eyes felt swollen, raw, her body limp and useless but it was over. Gordon shifted slightly, moving them both to sit a little more comfortably and she kept her head against the solid wall of his chest, his heartbeat a stable thrum under her ear. The shoulder of his shirt was so wet with tears it was translucent, clinging to his skin.
'We've been lucky up until now, haven't we?'
His arms tightened around her. 'I think we still are.' He took her chin in his hand, cupping it, raising her face until her eyes met his. 'At least, I think I am. Every day.'
Love was the strangest thing, so complex and so simple and so powerful in its sweetness. She would be happy again, she knew that; if nothing else, they would always be happy.
She has survived twenty-four hours and in those hours she is certain that she has re-lived every moment that they have spent together: that first meeting; the long - or perhaps not so long - process of falling love; an illicit kiss and all the others that had followed; the terror of mangled metal and his face so still and cold; watching him holding Jonathan and then Aisling in his arms; and yesterday, with those agonising seconds when her brain couldn't quite process what her eyes were telling her and his blood, so much blood, and the look almost of apology on his face.
The hallways of the Royal, so familiar, seem strangely far away, a barrier between her and the rush of life around her. Faces are pale, strained, voices low when she passes but she doesn't really notice any of that. She pushes the door open and the room is so quiet and the figure lying there so very still that the horror claws at her again.
'I told you never to do this to me again.' The words come, so harsh she doesn't recognise herself saying them.
'I just like to keep you on your toes.' His voice is scratchy, uncharacteristically weak; but he attempts a smile and the knot in her chest releases. Sweat beads his forehead and his skin is waxen but his eyes are bright despite the dark circles beneath.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Jill bends over him. 'You promise me, Gordon Ormerod, that this is the last time I have to do this, or, I swear, I'll find somewhere to lock you up.'
He brushes the backs of his fingers against her cheek. 'I promise.'
She kisses him, more fiercely than she meant to and knows that she isn't really supposed to but she needs to feel Gordon's living breath against her lips. There is a muffled grunt and she pulls back.
'Sorry.'
He has hold of her hand, stopping her from moving further away. 'It's a good sort of pain.' He pulls at her until she is half-curled against him, her head beside his on the pillow.
His recovery will take time but they have that, and that's the only thing that matters. They have plenty of time.
Fin