Dorothy Adams, our fifth year teacher, rushed into my office just after noon. "There's been an accident on the playground."

Those words always struck terror in the pit of my stomach even though, over the years, I'd learned most playground injuries weren't serious. Children were rambunctious and thus preordained to bang themselves up with a certain regularity that all of the monitoring and shouted warnings by parents and teachers would never prevent.

Nonetheless, the children at my school were my responsibility and any injury to a student always left me wondering if there was something I could have done to prevent it. It was only in the few minutes between the call of alarm and the sorting it all out by Martin that I always panicked inwardly while doing my best to project an image of complete calm.

"You need to call the doctor," Dorothy added.

Dorothy wasn't one to panic, which meant this was at least potentially serious. God help me.

"Who's hurt?" I asked.

"Eddie Tydings."

Damn. Of all the children in the school, why did it have to be him?

"David's bringing him inside now."

David Collins was our school's sole male teacher. "Should we move him?" I asked, recalling the numerous times Martin had berated us for transporting an injured child without his permission or supervision.

"It looks to be just his arm and it's starting to rain."

Just his arm – well, that was somewhat of a relief. And Dorothy was right that it didn't make sense to let the boy get wet.

"What happened to him?" I needed to know to satisfy my own worries and also so that I could relay the information to Martin.

"Eddie and Harry Summers ran into each other playing football. Seems Eddie got the worst of it."

"All right. Get the other children back to their classrooms and have David take Eddie to the infirmary. I'll call Dr. Ellingham and meet you there."

Minutes later, I found Eddie sitting on the exam couch, pants grimy from where he'd obviously taken a tumble on the dirt and grass. His left hand was holding his right, which hung limply from wrist. Blood oozed from a cut along his chin and mixed with the tears streaming down his face.

I grabbed a gauze pad and pressed it against the cut. "It's all right, Eddie," I said, rubbing his shoulder. "The doctor's on his way. He'll have you fixed up in no time."

"It hurts bad, Miss Glasson," he wailed.

"I know it does." And I didn't know what to do about it. When I'd called, Martin had said to do nothing other than to keep the boy calm until he arrived and promised to be here within ten minutes.

In the years he'd been our GP, Martin had always responded immediately to a call from the school. There were times, I knew, when he was annoyed at being summoned for something that, in his view, was less than a true emergency. But he also wanted to be the one to decide what was serious and what wasn't. And, where my students were concerned, I'd rather call him unnecessarily and endure a bit of cheek than fail to call him the one time I should.

A check of my watch revealed that less than five minutes had passed since I'd spoken to Martin; with a child crying and in pain, it only felt like ten times that long.

"Did you call his mother?" I asked Dorothy.

"Yes. She's coming straight over."

Great. We had to do it, of course, but I wasn't looking forward to dealing with Mrs. Tydings. Based on our prior conversations, I had no doubt she'd find some way to blame the school – and me – for her son's injury.

"Doc's here," someone called from down the hall and, to my relief, a few seconds later, Martin strode into the room, suit spotted with rain, and eyes immediately taking in the situation with his infamous clinical gaze. He took charge of the Portwenn Primary infirmary with the same authority he'd no doubt used as a surgeon in the operating theater, and I had to admit that his cool, dominating, imperious manner could be quite comforting at moments like this.

"Miss Glasson," he said in the formal tone I insisted he use in front of my pupils.

I nodded at him, let go of the gauze I was holding and stepped aside to let him take over.

"What happened?" he asked Eddie, setting down his black case and stepping to the exam couch.

"Harry and me both went for the ball at the same time," Eddie replied, sniffing back tears and now trying to look brave. "We smashed each other hard."

Martin took the boy's head in his large surgeon's hands. "Did he pass out or lose consciousness?" he asked me, not taking his eyes away from his patient.

From behind me, Dorothy answered. "I don't think so."

"Hmm." Martin reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a penlight. "Look straight ahead," he ordered, holding Eddie's chin and checking the boy's pupils. "Follow my finger." Apparently satisfied, Martin continued his questioning. "Did you fall?"

"Yeah. Landed on my hand." He held it up. "It really hurts."

"Let me see," he said, taking Eddie's arm and running sensitive fingers along the boy's forearm.

"Ow!"

"Hold still," he said, tightening his grip. "I need to check for fracture."

I bit my tongue at Martin's lack of bedside manner. He'd come immediately when I'd called and, now here, was expertly taking care of Eddie's injuries; it was about the most I could ask for. The boy's chin was bleeding again and I moved closer with fresh gauze.

"Yep," Martin said after a moment. "Colles fracture." He turned to me. "Have you called the parents?"

"Of course we have – his mother. What's a Colles fracture?" I asked, with a sinking feeling. Any fracture couldn't be a good thing.

"Fracture of the distal radius," he explained. When I still looked confused, he added, "broken wrist."

"Oh." Damn. I rubbed a hand along my temple, not even wanting to think of telling Mrs. Tydings that her son had a broken bone.

"Will I get to wear a cast?" Eddie asked, eyes widening.

"Yes," Martin answered. "I'll put a splint on it until your mother can get you to hospital. You'll get a cast there." He reached over to where I was still holding the gauze, his hand brushing lightly against mine. "Let me see that."

Lifting the gauze, he grimaced at the sight of the blood underneath and quickly turned away, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath.

I couldn't help but ache for Martin, so proud as a doctor and yet humbled to the point of physical illness every time he saw blood which, given his job, probably happened every day. It would be as if I needed to vomit every time I saw a pencil. I thought about how hard he'd tried to overcome his blood phobia and how painful it must be knowing that he'd failed. Martin could do almost anything medical – except this. There was nothing I could say that wouldn't make him feel worse about his situation, so I kept my mouth shut.

With a decided effort, Martin again checked the wound. "He'll need a few sutures," he announced. "I'll dress it and they can sew it up at the hospital. Do you hurt anywhere else?" he asked Eddie, running his hands along the boy's torso. "Other than your arm and your chin?"

The boy shook his head. "Nope."

I followed Martin as he stepped over to his bag and started rummaging through it, pulling out various supplies.

"He's going to be all right, isn't he?" I asked nervously.

Martin glanced back over to Eddie. "I expect so. Fracture looks uncomplicated so he shouldn't need more than a cast for four to six weeks. The chin wound is under the jawline; with proper suturing there won't be a visible scar."

I sighed with relief. "Thank goodness."

"It was an accident, Louisa. These things happen."

I knew that, of course. However, even if it was an accident, it had happened at my school, on my watch, to one of my students. And left me having to explain it all to Mrs. Tydings. I tried not to hover over Martin who spent the next few minutes cleaning and bandaging the cut and then carefully placing Eddie's arm in a splint.

"I thought I was getting a cast," Eddie complained, the fascination with Martin's activity apparently overtaking the pain he'd felt earlier.

"You will – at the hospital."

"Cool. I can get everyone to sign it. Do you think I can get one in blue?"

Martin gave a disgusted snort.

"I'm sure they have an assortment of colors," I replied, somewhat relieved. If Eddie was focusing on the color of his cast, he wasn't in too much pain.

Martin prepared a sling and started to tie it over the boy's shoulder.

"Ouch!" Eddie cried out.

Martin and I exchanged glances. He'd barely touched the child. Without saying a word, Martin unbuttoned Eddie's shirt and peeled it over his shoulders. We both stared at a handful of bruises that ran along his shoulder. Martin fingered them gently.

"Are those from today as well?" I asked.

"No, older. At least a week I'd say." Martin looked at Eddie. "How'd you get these?"

"Dunno."

"Really?" An eyebrow went up.

"Eddie, what happened to you?" Maybe this was what his mother had meant by bullying. "Did someone at school do this to you?"

"I was playing footy, just like today. I get hit sometimes."

Before Martin or I could respond, Mrs. Tydings rushed into the room, stopping short at the sight of her son with a large bandage on his chin and his arm in a bulky splint. It was the first time I'd seen her in person and I tried to reconcile what I saw – a stocky blonde with a face already lined with a lifetime of wrinkles – with the voice I'd heard so frequently of late on the phone.

"My God, what happened to my son?"