Sold to the Surgeon (17 page)

She shook her head. Stop daydreaming, she told herself firmly. Just because he kissed you by way of saying thank you, it doesn't mean that he likes you. He's probably still feeling sorry for you, poor little Staff Nurse Pointer, ditched by her fiancé for a better catch!

Walking across the bedroom, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Pale tawny golden hair, grey eyes fringed with dark lashes. Quite a nice face, she thought dispassionately, but not exciting. Not the sort of girl a clever, ambitious man like Greg Lincoln would want to settle down with. He'd flirted with her, that was true, but only when she was safely engaged. Ever since she'd been free he'd shown no interest whatsoever! It's because I'm not exciting, she thought with a sudden surge of irritation at herself. I'm not witty, or ambitious, I'm ordinary, just plain ordinary.

She glowered in the mirror, “You are dull, dull, dull,” she said, challenging her reflection to contradict her.

The telephone ringing in the hall brought a welcome interruption to her relentless and unflattering self-analysis; hastily she hurried down the stairs to answer it.

“Abigail!” It was Greg, and her heart gave a sudden gigantic flip, as she remembered his kiss of not so long ago. Although why she should remember such a brief, passionless kiss was beyond reason.

However, the memory made her feel suddenly shy, and she answered rather abruptly, “Yes?”

He hesitated a moment, as if put off by her abruptness, then said, “I rang to tell you Mary Mulligan is one hundred per cent better. I've talked to her, and she's resigned to the fact of living with her trachy for some time to come.”

“Oh, I'm glad she's OK.” There was a long pause, Abigail couldn't think of anything to say.

Then Greg suddenly said, “I took some letters down to the post room.”

“And?” She didn't get the connection.

“I saw a handwritten envelope, your handwriting to…”

“Oh!” now Abigail knew what was coming, “you mean the one to the Middle Eastern Agency.”

“It's a stupid idea, don't go ahead with it.”

“Are you telling me, or just giving me advice?” she asked, a hint of irony in her voice. Why was it men always thought they knew best! “Because as I told you before, I shall do whatever I think fit.”

“I know you will,” Greg's tone was definitely cool, “I was merely voicing an opinion. For your own good.”

“Thank you, but keep it to yourself.” Abigail could hardly recognise her own voice, it sounded so hard and distant. “I really don't feel in the slightest bit like taking advice from anyone.”

“Of course,” Greg's voice sounded equally hard and uncompromising, “I quite understand.” The line went dead and Abigail was left standing in the hall, miserably clutching the receiver to her chest.

Why had she been so stupidly pigheaded? That had been a heaven-sent opportunity to talk, to get to know Greg better, to continue the fragile threads of their relationship, and maybe to clear up some misunderstandings. But all she had done was to make matters worse! Slamming the phone back in its cradle, she sighed. She felt exhausted now, and depressed, and it didn't help knowing that she had been less than reasonable!

Dispiritedly she went back upstairs and finished the unpacking. This time she didn't dawdle, didn't waste time on memories; even so, it was very late by the time she had finished.

The rain was still pouring down heavily outside, and only served to add to her gloom. It made her even more uncomfortably aware that she would have to do something about the roof soon. Pouring herself a glass of red wine from a bottle given her by Greg's father, she took the wine and some cheese and biscuits to the lounge. The light from the fringed lamp by the stone fireplace cast a warm glow over the room as she sat lost in thought. Greg's words came back to her: “The cottage is only bricks and mortar, nothing can destroy your memories.”

In spite of giving Greg an impression to the contrary, she knew what she had to do; she must sell the cottage. Somebody would buy it who could afford the upkeep, and they would love it as much as she did. Surprisingly, once she had made the decision she felt much better. Where she would live, and what she would do in the future, she pushed to the back of her mind. Let the future take care of itself, she thought bravely.

Chapter Twelve

Before she went on duty the following morning, Abigail rang the Estate Agent and made an appointment to see him in her lunch hour; she did it early just to make certain she didn't get cold feet and back down on her resolve of the night before.

Of course, the ward was buzzing with the story of her dramatic action of the previous night, and as soon as she appeared Sister Collins sent Abigail in to see Mary.

“You are one visitor she will
definitely
want to see,” she said, smiling broadly.

Mary was sitting up in bed, looking healthily pink. She smiled, then pulling a rueful face pointed to her trachy.

“You'll have it closed later,” Abigail comforted her; it was obviously a little bit too soon.

Mary nodded and squeezed Abigail's hand, while her eyes said thank you. Abigail smiled back down at her, a warm glow of satisfaction spreading through her; it was a good feeling to know that Mary was alive, and that she had helped. Special moments like this make everything worthwhile, she thought as she left to carry on with the more mundane aspects of the morning's work.

It was a busy morning, quite a few new admissions, and when lunchtime came she was in such a hurry to keep her appointment with the Estate Agent that she didn't notice Greg come on to the ward as she went flying off in the opposite direction. She had confided in Sister Collins about selling the cottage, asking if she could take her lunch hour between twelve and one.

The Estate Agent assured her that selling the cottage would not be difficult. “A lot of people from London are buying these cottages as weekend retreats, he told her.

“But I don't want it to be a weekend retreat,” protested Abigail, “I want it to be someone's home.”

The Estate Agent looked at her in surprise. “You want the money, don't you?” he asked, “You'll have to take whoever offers the best price.”

“I suppose you're right,” Abigail agreed reluctantly, privately making up her mind to put off any would-be buyers she didn't like the look of.

She also managed to squeeze in a visit to the Residence Officer of the hospital, during her lunch hour. He was very helpful. She could have a hospital room if the cottage was sold quickly and she needed temporary accommodation while looking for somewhere else. What to do with all the furniture was another problem, and one she shelved for the time being.

The rest of the afternoon didn't allow her to worry about her actions. Dr. Singh, their efficient Senior House Officer, had started his holiday, and they had a locum, a tall, gangling fellow, who took everything at one pace, dead slow! You're not going to go down well with your consultant, thought Abigail as she tried to impress upon him that there was some urgency about clerking in the patients!

Because of his lethargy, it was well past her off-duty time before she finished, and then on impulse she went round to the children's section, wanting to see how her charges of the painting session were faring.

She arrived on the section to find Sister Moon at her desk, looking very drawn and sad, not at all like her usual cheerful self.

“What is it?” asked Abigail.

Sister Moon's eyes were full of tears, a fact which was very noticeable as she wore thick glasses which had the effect of magnifying her eyes. “I'm all right,” she said quickly, and bending down fished a tissue out of the drawer and wiped her eyes. “Not the way for a Sister to behave,” she added, trying to smile.

“I'm sorry,” said Abigail. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” replied Sister Moon, not bothering to hide the bitterness in her voice, “there's nothing you can do, nothing even Mr. Lincoln can do. It's so unfair—their only child too.”

“Who?”

“Timmy Smith.”

“I remember him,” said Abigail, a feeling of apprehension sweeping over her, “a lovely little boy, a real charmer.”

“Yes, that's him,” said Sister Moon dully, “Mr. Lincoln did a biopsy this morning, and the result has just come back. Cancer of the larynx.”

Abigail drew in her breath sharply. “But he's so young!” she exclaimed. “I didn't think children…”

“It's rare,” said Sister Moon, “but when it happens it's fast growing, and he has the most malignant type possible.” She wiped her streaming eyes again. “Mr. Lincoln is with the parents now. He has to tell them there's nothing anyone can do.”

Abigail felt a cold, hard lump in her throat. “How awful!” she whispered. It made all her problems seem silly and frivolous. She couldn't think of anything worse than to be told your child was going to die. She turned and walked away. There was nothing she could do, and her heart went out the parents of Timmy and to Greg, the bearer of such tragic news.

It was a subdued Abigail who went home. The sale of the cottage seemed unimportant. It's true, she thought, looking around at the living room; it is only bricks and mortar, people are much more important.

Halfway through her preparations for supper, there was a knock on the door. Startled, she went to answer it. She wasn't expecting anyone, but thought maybe it was Lynne. But it wasn't Lynne, it was Greg, standing in the small brick porch, his huge frame filling up every available inch of space.

“Can I come in?” he asked without preamble.

For an answer Abigail swung the front door open wide and he walked past her without a word through into the lounge. Taking off his jacket, he threw it across one of the chairs, then sank into the deeply cushioned settee. Strain and sorrow were etched deeply into his face, giving him a vulnerable look. His dark eyes were dull, and full of pain.

Without speaking Abigail went into the kitchen and poured him a glass of wine. Taking it through into the lounge, she placed it in his hand.

Wearily Greg raised his eyes to hers. “I could do with something stronger than this,” he said, looking at the red wine.

Impulsively Abigail sat down beside him and touched his arm. “Drink it,” she said. “It's your father's wine, perhaps some of the Italian sunshine will seep into your heart.”

He gave a short laugh. “What an incurably romantic thing to say!” he said. “It's the kind of remark my mother would come out with.” Then he continued sombrely, “I understand from Sister Moon that you came round to the children's section this evening.”

“Yes,” said Abigail slowly, “she told me about Timmy Smith.” She saw Greg wince at her words, as if in physical pain. “How did his parents take it?” she asked at last.

“Hard,” said Greg, his voice breaking, “and I couldn't make it any easier for them. Oh, Abigail, sometimes life is so rotten!”

In one swift movement he was in her arms. She held him as she would a small child, stroking his dark hair with tender hands and gently kissing the top of his head. For a long time they stayed like that, he taking comfort from her encircling arms, she only too happy to give him what he needed most at that time, someone to be with, someone to share his sorrow.

At last he drew away. “Thank you,” he said simply. Then he gave a lopsided grin. “Men are supposed to be the stronger sex,” he said, “not supposed to need comforting.”

“It would be a very hard man, one without a heart, who never needed comfort,” said Abigail gently. Then she got up. “Have you eaten?” Greg shook his head. “How about steak and salad, followed by cheese?”

“Sounds like the food of the Gods to me,” said Greg wearily.

They had a late, leisurely supper. Neither of them talked much, somehow it wasn't necessary. It wasn't an awkward or difficult silence, but a companionable one.

When they had finished Abigail carried the dishes through to the kitchen, intending to make some coffee. But when she returned to collect the glasses, Greg was sound asleep on the settee.

Tenderly she looked at his long form lying stretched out in sleep, his dark hair falling, as usual, across his brow. Slowly, as she studied his face, the tender sensuous mouth, the firm jawline that hinted at his determined strength, she realised that without even being aware of it, she had fallen in love with the man now lying exhausted in her lounge. Life is strange, she mused, as she shyly reached out and touched his hair, wondering whether to leave him to sleep, or send him on his way.

Eventually deciding it would be kinder to leave him, she fetched a warm blanket and gently tucked it around him. Then switching off the lights she made her way silently upstairs and went to bed herself.

“Tea!” Startled, Abigail sat bolt upright in bed, to be confronted by Greg standing in front of her with a cup of tea in his hand. “Tea,” he repeated.

Suddenly aware that she was wearing only the flimsiest of nightdresses, Abigail pulled the sheet up beneath her chin.

Greg laughed. “Don't be so modest,” he said, “I've seen more of you in your bikini?”

That was true, of course, but somehow Abigail felt more selfconscious sitting in bed in a nightdress than sitting in a scanty bikini by the side of a swimming pool. “It isn't quite the same,” she muttered.

“You're right, it isn't,” he agreed, passing her the tea. He paused, looking down at her, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I'd like to stay,” he said, “but I can't. I've got a full days operating starting in one hour. Goodbye, and thanks for everything.” Swiftly he strode out of the bedroom, and quietly closed the door.

Abigail sat in bed, sipping the tea, listening until the noise of his car had died away in the distance. She felt a warm glow inside her, which stayed with her the rest of the morning, in spite of having to cope with two lazy porters and the locum SHO; between them they constituted a disastrous trio.

Sister asked her to take a late lunch that day, which meant she was alone on the ward for nearly an hour, but as it coincided with a break in theatres there were no postoperative patients to worry about. The ward was peaceful, patients enjoying their lunches, and Abigail took the opportunity to sit and rest at Sister Collins' desk.

The ward phone rang, and Abigail picked it up. “ENT Ward, Staff Nurse Pointer speaking.”

“Ah, Nurse Pointer,” it was the man from the Estate Agent's. “Forgive me for ringing you at work, but I thought you'd like to know straight away.”

“Know what?” asked Abigail. Surely the cottage hadn't been sold already!

“We've sold the cottage for you, and at the asking price.”

“But nobody's been to see it,” stammered Abigail, not prepared for such a sudden turn of events. “How could you have sold it?”

“We have,” the Estate Agent assured her. “The customer has just been in, paid a handsome deposit and signed the necessary documents.”

“But what about viewing, and a survey?” asked Abigail.

“Not necessary,” he informed her. “I did suggest it, of course, but the purchaser was adamant—he wants the cottage, doesn't need to see it and doesn't want a survey. What's more, it will be a cash sale, no waiting about for mortgages or anything tiresome like that.”

Abigail was stunned. She hadn't been prepared for the cottage to be sold so quickly. In her heart of hearts, she'd secretly hoped it would stay on the market for ages, even though she hadn't actually admitted that fact to herself.

“Are you still there, Nurse Pointer?” asked the voice at the other end of the line.

“Yes, I'm still here,” said Abigail faintly. “Thank you for ringing me.” She put the phone down, feeling numb inside; her previous glow evaporating suddenly into a mood of dejection. Don't be stupid, you'll get over it, she told herself sensibly. It has to be done, you should be pleased it's happened so quickly. But she wasn't pleased, she felt too miserable for words.

That evening when she returned to the cottage, she just couldn't settle down. She wandered around the cottage, fingering every beloved thing, and all the memories of her childhood came flooding back with heartrending clarity. It was no use telling herself she couldn't spend her life looking backwards, because her heart wouldn't listen. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine, then slumped down at the table, the wine untouched. Burying her head in her arms, she sobbed uncontrollably.

“Been hitting the bottle, I see,” Greg's voice cut through her noisy sobs.

Abigail raised a tear-stained face. “How did you…?”

“Get in?” Greg finished for her. Then he grinned wickedly. “I took the precaution of taking one of your front door keys on my way out this morning,” he said, waving it under her nose. “You really should be more careful who you invite in, you know. There are all sorts of undesirable characters about!” He slipped the key back in his pocket.

“But I…you…” sniffed Abigail, vainly searching for a handkerchief with which to wipe her eyes.

“Come here,” said Greg, passing her a handkerchief and pulling her into his arms at the same time. “Why are you crying?”

“Because I've made a decision,” her voice was muffled by the handkerchief, “and now it's done, I'm glad,” she added defiantly.

“I'd hate to see you if you weren't glad!” said Greg, raising his eyebrows.

“I'm glad, but I'm miserable!” wailed Abigail, bursting into tears again, and burying her head on his chest.

“Hold on,” said Greg. “Abigail, you're drenching my shirt! If you don't stop crying I'll be wet through!”

“I've sold the cottage,” she said, her face still buried in his shirt front. “You were right, it is only bricks and mortar, and I don't know why I'm crying.”

“Feminine logic,” said Greg. “Don't worry, I'm used to it. My mother uses that kind of logic all the time!”

She raised her head and looked at him accusingly. “You're laughing at me,” she said.

His mouth curved into a smile. “No, I'm not,” he said softly, “and I know you've sold the cottage, because I've bought it.”