Breeding Ground, page 5
‘Could you check your record of admissions for today, please?’ he asked. ‘There’s someone I’d like to see.’
The nurse made her way back to the reception desk, followed by the doctor.
‘What was the name of the patient?’ she asked, opening a large, bound tome on the desk.
‘Foster. Molly Foster,’ he told her. ‘I’m her doctor. My
name is Finch.’
The girl ran one slender index finger down a column of names, jabbing at the one she sought.
‘Mrs Foster is in Ward 5C, the lift is over there.’ She pointed in the appropriate direction.
Finch thanked her, walked to the lift and punched the ‘5’ button. The doors slid open promptly and he stepped in, leaning back against the rear wall of the car as it rose. His surgery had finished an hour earlier. He’d found the time to shower and drink a cup of tea before changing into an open- neck shirt and jeans. Then he’d driven to the hospital, determined to see if Molly Foster had made any progress, or at least to discover if the tests had yielded answers to the baffling questions he’d been confronted with earlier in the day. Finch couldn’t help but wonder if he would always find time for individual patients, as he was doing now. In years to come, would he be unconcerned with what became of them outside surgery hours? He knew that many doctors felt that way, but so far he had not been able to decide whether a detached attitude was unavoidable or essential, the product of overwork or of cynicism.
The lift bumped to a halt at the fifth floor and he stepped out.
There was a vending machine nearby, being fed coins by a youth in a leather jacket. A teenage girl, with her right leg in plaster, sat on the leather seat beside the machine and looked on as the lad pressed buttons and made a choice of drinks. The machine coughed out two cans of Coke and the couple talked animatedly as they drank.
The doctor glanced up at the sign above a set of swing doors which bore the legend ‘Ward 5C’. He walked in, turning right, heading for the ward sister’s desk. She was a small, slightly built woman in her thirties, a ladder in one stocking. Her face had a pinched look, made the worse by her long nose, but the harshness of her features was counter-balanced by the softness of her voice when she spoke.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ she said, in an accent with a slight Irish lilt.
Finch asked to see Molly Foster, told her why and waited to be shown to the appropriate bed. The duty sister accompanied him, indicating a set of screens which hid Molly from the view of the other patients. It was visiting time, so most patients had at least one friend or relative present and a low burble of conversation filled the ward. Finch approached the screens and moved them aside just enough to allow himself access.
Lisa Foster turned to look at him as she heard movement from behind her. She started to rise but Finch shook his head, looking first at her and then at her mother. Molly was asleep, her head turned to one side. The boils and sores had been dressed, and most of her face, neck and arms were now covered in bandages.
‘I hope you don’t mind me calling in,’ Finch said. ‘I thought I’d see how she was getting on.’
Lisa too had changed clothes since their first meeting. She now wore a light sweater, the baggy sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The folds of material largely concealed her small breasts but the tight jeans she wore accentuated the smooth curve of her buttocks and the shapeliness of her thighs. Her hair looked as if it had been freshly washed for it gleamed beneath the lights. She wore only the merest hint of eye make-up.
‘They gave her a sedative about an hour ago,’ she told him. ‘The...boils were beginning to hurt her, she said.’ Lisa looked away from Finch. ‘I’ve been with her since they brought her in this morning.’
‘You could do with a break,’ he told her.
‘I popped home for twenty minutes to change. I’m OK.’
Both of them turned as the screens were parted and a tall, raven-haired man in a white coat entered. He looked at Finch and Lisa over the top of his glasses, then picked up the board which hung from the bottom of Molly’s bed.
Finch introduced himself and said, ‘I’m the doctor who asked for Mrs Foster’s admission.’
The other man nodded.
‘Have you any idea what the problem might be?’ Finch
asked.
‘Not yet.’ The man looked at Lisa and smiled thinly. ‘Would you step outside for a moment, Miss Foster?’
Lisa looked concerned.
‘Is anything wrong?’ she said.
‘You’ll be told everything we know, but not until we know it,’ the man in the white coat said, then remained quiet until Lisa was out of earshot. Then he looked at Finch. ‘My name’s Benton. Peter Benton. I’m in charge of the tests we’re running on Mrs Foster.’ He sighed. ‘I’m afraid her condition has deteriorated since she was admitted.’ He stepped to the bed and lifted one of Molly’s arms, carefully unwrapping a dressing beneath her elbow. He removed the gauze pad which covered the affected area.
The boil looked on the point of bursting, a liquescent nodule seeping pus from its edges, but it was the area around the boil which Benton indicated. It looked yellow beneath the bright lights, the veins standing out darkly against the wasted skin.
‘The infection’s spreading,’ Finch said flatly, recognising the symptom.
‘Her temperature has risen in the last two hours, and so has her blood pressure,’ Benton informed him. ‘She was in so much pain we had to sedate her.’
‘What have the tests revealed?’
‘We’re still waiting for the results. We took blood samples, skin sections and tissue from the pustules themselves. We haven’t tried any medication yet, not until we know what we’re dealing with.’ He carefully re-bandaged the sore. ‘The next step is to remove one of the lesions and examine it.’
Finch nodded and turned to leave.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said.
‘Could you have a word with her daughter?’ asked Benton. ‘Try to persuade her there’s nothing she can do? I’ve tried but...’ He shrugged and let the sentence trail off. ‘She’d be better off at home.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Finch promised and walked back up the ward.
He found Lisa sitting by the window looking out at the sun, which had finally lost its earlier intensity and was sinking slowly toward the tall buildings of London’s skyline. Now reduced to a glowing orange disk in the gathering evening haze, its soft warmth was a welcome relief from the fierce midday heat.
Finch paused for a moment, studying Lisa’s profile as she gazed out of the window, then he coughed loudly and theatrically. She turned, getting to her feet.
‘Can I go back in now?’ she asked him.
‘Your mother will be out for quite a while yet,’ he said. ‘Sitting staring at her isn’t going to do either of you any good.’ He raised his eyebrows.
Lisa nodded.
‘Can I buy you a cup of coffee?’ he asked, smiling, moving towards the vending machine.
She nodded and followed him, standing nearby as he pushed the coins in and then jabbed the buttons. The machine dropped a cup obligingly, but proceeded to fill it with nothing more than hot water.
‘Do you take sugar in your water?’ he asked, with a grin.
Lisa looked at him blankly for a moment, and then, for the first time since he’d met her, she too smiled.
‘Perhaps we’d be better off in the canteen,’ Finch suggested.
They walked to the lift.
Seven
Lisa cradled the coffee cup in her hand, looking down into the swirling brown liquid which she had just stirred for the third time.
Finch sipped his own drink and looked at her as if waiting for some word or reaction.
The hospital canteen was filled with patients, visitors, doctors, nurses and other staff, all drinking coffee or eating sandwiches. A steady babble of conversation filled the room.
‘To use a time-honoured medical cliché,’ said Finch, his eyes never leaving Lisa, ‘worrying about your mother won’t help either of you. There’s nothing you can do here at the moment.’
‘That’s what Doctor Benton told me,’ she admitted. ‘He suggested that I go home and wait until they contact me.’
‘That’s very good advice.’
‘Doctors stick together, don’t they?’ she said sardonically.
‘Listen, Miss Foster, no one’s saying you don’t have a right to be worried but if you carry on this way you’ll be exhausted and no help to your mother when she needs you.’
‘Are you persuading me or patronising me, doctor?’ There was a slight edge to her voice which Finch was not slow to pick up. He saw a momentary iciness in her blue eyes, but it rapidly melted. ‘I’m sorry,’ she sighed. ‘I didn’t mean that. I know you’re considering my health as well.’ She took a sip of her coffee. ‘By the way, it was thoughtful of you to come and see my mother. Thank you.’
‘A doctor’s duties shouldn’t end when his surgery closes, Miss Foster.’
‘Lisa,’ she told him. ‘Please call me Lisa.’
Finch smiled, and was pleased to see her return the gesture.
‘Have the rest of your family been told about this?’ he enquired.
‘I didn’t see any reason, doctor,’ she told him.
‘Alan,’ he said. ‘My name is Alan. Doctors have first names too.’
She smiled again, the gesture lighting her face.
‘Alan,’ she repeated. ‘No, I haven’t told any of my family about what’s happened because there wouldn’t be much point. I’m the only one who sees Mother from one week to the next. If I hadn’t called in today she’d have stayed the way she was. On her own with no one to help her.’
‘I didn’t mean to pry,’ Finch said, almost apologetically. She dismissed his words.
‘Why should I keep it a secret? I’ve got two sisters and two brothers and if Mother sees any of them more than twice in a year, then she’s lucky. One of them will phone occasionally if they’ve got nothing else to do but apart from that I’m the only one who calls in on her. I sometimes stop there at weekends.’ Finch looked briefly at her hands and saw that there was no sign of a wedding or engagement ring.
‘She’s got two three-year-old grandchildren that she’s never even seen,’ Lisa continued, as if anxious to relieve herself of some kind of burden. The bitterness in her voice was unsettling. ‘That’s the way it’s been for as long as I can remember. I’ve always been the one who looked after her when she needed help, and God knows I owe it to her.’
‘What about your father?’ Finch enquired.
‘He died when I was fifteen. My mother worshipped him. After his death she was never the same. She never stopped loving him, she never will. I often wonder what it must be like to feel that way about someone.’ She took a sip of coffee, lowering her eyes momentarily as if she had opened up just a little more than she wanted to.
‘Up until today, though, your mother’s been a fit woman, hasn’t she?’ Finch said. ‘I checked back through the records.’ Lisa nodded.
‘And you’ve no idea at all what might have caused this...’ He allowed the sentence to trail off.
‘She phoned me this morning about six and asked me to call in on her. When I got there that was how I found her.’
‘Where do you live?’ he wanted to know.
‘I’m a receptionist at the Strand Palace Hotel, I’ve got a room there. The wages aren’t too great but at least the food and lodging are free.’ She smiled humourlessly. ‘But I’m staying at my mother’s place until all this is sorted out. I was due a few days’ holiday. The management are pretty good about things like that.’ She finished her coffee and pushed the cup away. Finch watched as she ran both hands through her thick hair and shook her head, causing the silken cascade to shimmer beneath the lights.
‘Well, you know the interesting things about me,’ she said, mockingly, ‘but I don’t know anything about you. Can you tell me or is it breaking the Hippocratic oath?’ She smiled.
‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.
‘How long have you been a doctor?’
‘I studied medicine until I was twenty-eight. When I finished I joined a National Health practice in Camden Town for a year, then I moved to another in Notting Hill, full time, up until three months ago. I’ve been with this private practice since then.’
‘Are you married?’
‘Divorced,’ he said, his tone softening.
‘I’m sorry. Still, at least you’ve had your chance. I sometimes wonder if I’m going to end up on the shelf. Twenty-eight and still single. Even my mum has been telling me it was time I settled down.’
‘I don’t think there’s much chance of you ending up on the shelf. You’re a very attractive young woman.’
Lisa smiled self-consciously and attempted to change the subject.
‘You obviously enjoy your work,’ she said to him.
‘Yes, I do. But it has its moments of pain too.’ His voice took on a reflective note. ‘Trying to tell a young couple that their ten-month-old son is dying of leukaemia isn’t easy. I sometimes admire other doctors who are able to cut themselves off from their patients, at least on an emotional level. I’m afraid I haven’t been able to do that. Not yet anyway.’
Lisa ran an appraising eye over him, studying his face. His hair was dark, almost black, and although he was clean-shaven, the skin around his cheeks and chin also looked dark, as if his whiskers defied even the sharpest razor. His forehead was deeply lined, his eyes framed by thick eyebrows and high cheekbones. She looked at his hands, clasped on the table before him, and sensed a gentleness in them, despite their size. His forearms were thick and heavily muscled, clearly visible as his sleeves were rolled up.
He noticed her looking at him. Their eyes met and they held each other’s gaze for fleeting moments.
‘You look tired,’ Finch told her.
‘I’m all right,’ she reassured him. ‘I think it’s time I got back up to the ward.’
‘Lisa, Doctor Benton was right. There’s nothing you can do there.’
‘I can’t bear to think of my mother here, alone.’
‘She’s being well cared for. Now, will you let me drive you home? My car’s outside.’
She hesitated and inhaled deeply, letting out the breath in a long sigh.
‘All right. I suppose there is nothing I can do,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d take me home.’ They both rose and walked slowly from the canteen, through reception and out into the dusk. The sun had just sunk out of sight and a slight breeze had sprung up. Lisa rolled down the sleeves of her sweater while she waited for Finch to unlock the Chevette. She slid into the passenger seat and he settled himself behind the wheel a moment later, adjusting his rear-view mirror before starting the car.
As he guided it out into the traffic an ambulance passed them, its lights spinning silently. Finch glanced behind him and saw two uniformed men hurrying from the vehicle carrying a stretcher and its load. They disappeared through the doors marked ‘Casualty’.
Neither he nor Lisa spoke.
The doctor drove steadily, in no hurry to reach his destination, and Lisa seemed quite content to gaze abstractedly out of the window as the Chevette threaded its way through the cars and lorries, bikes and vans which dotted the streets leading away from the hospital.
‘You said you were divorced,’ she said, quite unexpectedly. ‘How long had you been married? If you don’t mind me asking?’
He shook his head.
‘Six years,’ he told her.
‘Any children?’
Finch was silent for a moment and Lisa looked across at him, studying his profile. She was about to repeat her question when he answered.
‘One. A boy. We had him soon after we were married.’ He smiled but there was no warmth in it. ‘Even doctors make mistakes occasionally, you know.’
Lisa realised that she had touched on a delicate point and she dropped the subject, her own problems now drifting back into her mind.
‘Do you think my mother is going to die?’ she asked him suddenly.
Finch frowned.
‘No,’ he said, softly, and once more their eyes briefly locked.
They drove the rest of the way in silence until he eventually pulled up outside the flats in Flaxman Court.
‘Thank you,’ said Lisa, reaching for the door handle. ‘You’ve been very kind.’ She flashed him that radiant smile once more. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you again.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ he replied. ‘Though hopefully under happier circumstances.’
They exchanged brief farewells and she climbed out of the car. Finch watched as she walked quickly to the flats, not looking back. He exhaled deeply. Should he have told her that the infection was spreading?
No, leave it to the hospital, he told himself.
As he started the car he wondered about Lisa’s question.
Was her mother going to die?
He wished he knew.
Finch drove off, the cool wind through the open window making him shiver.
Eight
In the growing darkness, the waters of the Thames looked black. The river curved through the city like a huge bloated tongue. The current heatwave had taken its toll even on the mighty river and the water level was down a good two feet. The banks on either side were clearly visible, sloping down at a sharp angle to the murky water. Normally hidden by the constant flow, they were now revealed as dirty stretches of shale and mud, baked hard in places by the day’s unrelenting heat. A faintly rancid smell hung over the water, drifting ashore every so often when propelled by the gathering evening breezes.
Lights on the embankment high above, and on the parapets of Westminster Bridge, were reflected in the surface of the river like jewels in a dirty mirror.
