A Special Kind of Family

To my Number One Marion,
my Number One Reader, my Number One Mum.

Love you for ever.

T
HE
doorbell rang at one in the morning. Dominic Spencer, Doc to the locals, swore and thumped his basin of dough into the trash. The locals knew he couldn’t go out tonight. Was a patient coming to him?

Happy Easter, he thought, and tried not to glower as he stomped through the hall to the front door. It had better be serious.

It was.

The girl standing on his veranda was a bedraggled, muddy mess. Age? Somewhere between twenty and thirty. It was hard to be more precise. She was five feet six or so, slightly built, and wearing jeans and a windcheater, both coated with mud, and with blood. One leg of her jeans was ripped to the knee, and there was blood on her bare shin.

What else? She was wearing one filthy shoe, but only one. The other foot was partly covered by a sock, but the sock had long abandoned the idea of being footwear.

Her brown-black curls were drooping in sodden tendrils to her shoulders. Her eyes were huge. Scared. A long scratch ran from her left eyebrow almost to her chin, bleeding sluggishly.

She was carrying one of the ugliest dogs he’d ever seen. Maybe an English bulldog? Fat to the point of grotesque, it lay limply in her arms—a dead weight.

‘Oh, thank God,’ the girl managed before he had a chance to
speak. She shoved the dog forward, lurching like she was drunk. He grabbed the dog, then watched in dismay as she sank onto the veranda, put her head between her knees and held her head down with both hands.

Triage, he thought, his arms full of dog. Woman first, dog second.

Get rid of the dog.

Rain was blasting in from the east, reaching almost to the door, so he turned and laid the dog on the mat inside the hall. The dog sagged like a rag doll, but the girl was his priority.

‘What’s wrong?’ He caught her wrist. Her pulse was racing. She was sweating, and as he knelt beside her she started to retch.

‘H-help me,’ she stuttered, and couldn’t manage more.

A child’s sand bucket was lying on the veranda. He hauled it forward but she didn’t need it. This hadn’t been the first time she’d vomited tonight, then.

Now wasn’t the time for questions. He did a more careful visual examination as he waited for the nasty little interlude to be over.

She was kneeling, which meant the damage to her leg must be superficial. The scratch on her face wasn’t deep either. She was moving her arms freely. There didn’t seem to be any major injury.

Maybe she was retching from exhaustion. If he’d had to carry that lump of a dog far, he might be retching, too.

This afternoon had been sultry before the change, and the kids had set up their paddling pool by the sandpit. A house-proud man might have tidied the place as soon as the colder weather hit, but housework was well down Dominic’s list of priorities. So towels still lay on the veranda, albeit damp ones. As she ceased retching, he used one to wipe the worst of the mud and blood from her face. She submitted without reaction and he thought again, This is exhaustion.

‘Let’s get you inside.’

She looked up then, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Where…where…?’ She was almost incoherent.

‘I’m the local doctor,’ he said, smiling at her in what he
hoped was his best bedside manner. ‘I assume you know that from the sign on the front gate. My name’s Dominic Spencer. Dom for short.’

‘Dominic,’ she managed.

‘Dom will do fine. And your name?

‘Erin Carmody.’

It wasn’t a comprehensive patient history but it’d do for now. ‘What hurts?’

‘Everything.’ It was practically a wail and he relaxed a little. In his experience, patients who were deathly ill didn’t wail.

‘Anything specific?’

‘N-no.’

‘What happened?’

‘I crashed my car.’

Where? The roads round here would be deserted at this time of night. Where had she walked from?

‘Is anyone else hurt?’ he asked, and she managed to shake her head.

‘So there’s no one else at the car.’

‘N-no. I was by myself.’

‘Is the car obstructing the road? Do I need to call the police?’

‘No.’

‘Okay. Let’s get you out of the rain where I can take a look at you.’

‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she managed. ‘It’s really late.’ She stared blindly up at him and he thought he saw fear. Her eyes were wide and brown and shocked.

It was one in the morning. Maybe reassurance was the way to go.

‘Take a look around,’ he said gently, motioning to the jumble behind him—buckets and spades, Nathan’s tricycle, Martin’s pogo stick, the bundle of wet towels left from the day’s play. ‘I’m a dad as well as a doctor. My kids are asleep upstairs. You’re safe here.’

‘The dog…’

‘Even the dog’s safe with me,’ he said ruefully. ‘Safe, reliable Dr Spencer.’

She even managed a smile at that. ‘Don’t say it like you’d rather be a playboy,’ she whispered.

‘Leave my fantasies alone,’ he growled, and smiled back. ‘Now, Erin, don’t get your knickers in a knot but I’m going to carry you indoors. One, two, three, go.’ And before she could protest he swung her up into his arms.

She was older than twenty. She was every bit a woman, he thought as his arms held her close. Pushing thirty? Maybe. Now the worst of the mess was gone from her face he could see smile lines around her eyes. Or worry lines? Nope, smile lines, he thought. She had clear, brown eyes, nicely spaced. Her mouth was generous and her nose was decidedly cute.

That was hardly patient appraisal. He gave himself a swift mental swipe and carried her inside before she could find the strength to protest.

She did protest as he stepped over the dog in the hall.

‘The dog…’ she managed. ‘Put me down.’

‘I’ll attend to your dog as soon as I’ve attended to you.’ In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if the dog was on the way out. It hadn’t moved an inch since he’d set it down.

But that wasn’t his concern right now. Erin had been retching. He needed to check there wasn’t a ruptured spleen or something equally appalling going on inside. So he stepped over the limp dog with purpose and carried her into the living room.

He’d been reading in here while he waited for his dough to…not rise. The open fire was still sending out warmth, making the place seem intimate and welcoming. The settee was big and squishy, built for comfort rather than style.

She protested again as he laid her on the mound of cushions.

‘I can’t. Your wife…I’ll stain your settee,’ she whispered as he laid her down, but her protest was weak. She was almost past arguing.

‘I have kids,’ he growled. ‘We’ve given up worrying about Home Beautiful years ago. Let’s have a look at you.’

There was a better light in the living room and he could see her more clearly. Lots of superficial injuries, he thought, taking in scratches and bruising. There was blood but not so much in any one place that it merited concern.

‘Can we take the worst of those clothes off?’ he asked, half expecting her to protest again, but she simply looked at him for a long moment, maybe assessing for herself the truth of his statement about reliability, steadfastness—dad material rather than playboy stuff. What she saw must have been okay. She nodded mutely and submitted as he peeled off her windcheater and tugged her jeans away.

He wanted her dry. Her bra and panties were scant and lacy—they’d dry quickly on her, he thought, and he guessed she’d be much happier if he let them be. He pulled a mohair throw from the back of the settee, tucked it round her and felt her relax a little with the warmth.

He felt her pulse again and it was slowing, growing stronger and steadier.

‘How far did you carry the dog?’ he asked, checking an arm gently, watching her face for reaction. No problems there. Her hands were scratched but there were no breaks. He lifted the other arm before she found the strength to reply.

‘Miles,’ she said, and she even managed to sound indignant. ‘This is the middle of nowhere.’

‘What, Bombadeen?’ he asked, pseudo indignant to match. ‘Bombadeen’s the cultural capital of the known world.’

‘Right,’ she managed, and tried for a smile. Then, as he moved to check her legs she added, ‘My legs are fine. Do you think I could have carried him with a broken leg?’

‘Toes?’

‘Also fine.’

But they weren’t. He tugged the lone trainer off her right
foot. That was okay. He gently peeled the remainder of the sock from her left foot. Less than okay. Gravel was deeply embedded. The foot was bleeding, rubbed raw.

Not life-threatening, though. Move on for now.

‘Tummy?’

‘That does hurt,’ she whispered, finally acknowledging pain. ‘Like I’ve-just-been-retching hurt. But, no, I wasn’t hit in the chest or abdomen. I’d imagine my kidneys and spleen are in one piece and I’m breathing okay.’

She had medical knowledge, then? He smiled but he didn’t take her word for it. He put his hands gently on her abdomen and felt, still watching her face.

‘It’s true. I’m fine,’ she whispered.

‘In fact, you’ve never looked better,’ he agreed, relaxing. Then triage kicked in again. ‘You’ve been in a car accident. You’re sure no one else was hurt?’

‘There’s only me.’

‘And your car…You’re sure it’s not blocking the road? Do I need to call the emergency services to clear it?’

‘It’s way off the road,’ she said, suddenly bitter. ‘But even if it was, would you need to clear it? Apart from the car that caused me to crash—which didn’t even stop—I’ve seen no other car for hours.’

‘It’s a quiet little town in the middle of coastal bushland—and we’re on holiday.’ He was still watching her face, thinking the situation through. What next?

In the warm room Erin’s colour was starting to return. Her foot needed attention, as did her mass of cuts and bruises, but if she’d carried the dog for miles she must really care about it. Maybe triage said he ought to check.

‘If you’re okay for a minute, I’ll see what’s happening to your dog.’

‘Would you?’ She closed her eyes. ‘I think he’s dying. He was moving when I picked him up—he sort of moaned—but he didn’t struggle.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Dom said, and put his hand on her cheek in a fleeting gesture of reassurance. ‘Don’t move.’ He tucked the rug more tightly round her, pulled a couple more logs onto the fire then left, leaving the door wide so she could watch him.

Her eyes followed him. She must love the dog a lot to carry him with her foot like that, he thought. It’d be good if he could do something. But, like she’d said, the dog looked close to death.

The creature hadn’t moved. Dom flicked the hall light on so he could see him better and stooped over the limp form.

He wasn’t dead yet. Neither was he unconscious. The dog’s eyes were huge. He looked up at Dominic and his expression was almost imploring.

If there was one thing Dom was a sucker for it was a dog, especially a dog in trouble. And this one was really in trouble. ‘Hey,’ Dominic said softly, and put a finger gently behind the dog’s soft ear. He scratched gently. ‘Hey, it’s okay.’

He liked this dog on sight. It was mix of English bulldog and something he didn’t know. Part bulldog, part mutt? Dog ugly in every sense of the word. He looked a bit like Winston Churchill, missing the cigar.

But he didn’t smile at the thought. The situation was too serious.

Tending an injured dog had problems not normally associated with people, the main one being their propensity to bite. This one looked beyond biting, but Dom sensed that even when he was well this dog would be docile. His eyes followed him with absolute trust.

But, hell, he must be hurt. Why wasn’t he moving?

A few months ago Dom had attended a guy who’d come off his bike onto gravel. That’s what this dog looked like—he’d been dragged along the road. His coat was a mass of scratches, some deep. His mistress was in a much better state than he was.

What was so wrong that the dog couldn’t move?

He’d laid the dog on the doormat and the dog had slumped so his legs were facing the wall. Now Dom carefully pulled the
mat around—with dog attached—so he could get a clear view of the dog’s joints. A smashed leg would explain immobility.

But his legs were fine. Or…not. Here at last was information to enter in his patient’s history. In Dom’s expert medical opinion, these were
her
legs.

‘What’s your dog’s name?’ he called back into the sitting room.

‘You tell me and we’ll both know,’ the woman muttered, and Dominic thought he needed to give her something for pain.

But suddenly his attention switched back to the dog. For, as he watched, a ripple ran across its limp body. The muscle contraction was unmistakable.

From a little bit of information suddenly he had a lot of information. Too much. This dog was not male and she was not fat.
She
was heavily pregnant and by the look of her body she was in labour.

Great, Dom thought. Fantastic. Half an hour ago he’d been bored to snores. Now he had a wounded woman lying on his sitting-room settee, and a pregnant bitch who was showing every sign of dying unless he could do something about it. And the last vet had left Bombadeen back in 1980. Via the graveyard.

Okay, he needed a history. He rose, striding swiftly back into the sitting room. ‘I need to know…’ he started, but at the look on Erin’s face he changed priorities again and headed for his surgery. That foot would be excruciatingly painful. His surgery was at the back of the house, accessed through his study. Two minutes later he was back, hauling his bag open, retrieving what he needed.

‘Sorry,’ he said, kneeling beside Erin and lifting the rug back a little. ‘I shouldn’t have let the dog distract me. I’m giving you something for the pain. Are you allergic to anything?’

‘No, I—’

‘No reaction to morphine?’

‘No, but—’

‘Then let’s stop things hurting,’ he said. He should set up a mask but he was forming priorities as he went. A mask meant he’d need to stay with her while she slowly gained the level of
pain relief she needed. But he had a birth on his hands. She had brought the dog, after all.

‘I don’t need morphine,’ she muttered.