seen him even so briefly.
He did that to people, though, she realised, because he was always pleased to see them, always had a ready smile and a sympathetic ear.
Even when he was exhausted, which he quite often was, she had never known him lose his temper or get short with anyone. Unlike Nick, who had always been crabby and irritable when he was tired. During his house year she had kept Tim out of his way whenever possible, so that Nick could rest. Now, she wondered if she had done the right thing, because in the end he had accused her of avoiding him, and although she had denied it at the time later she had realised there might have been an element of truth in it. But then, if only Nick had been able to deal with his tiredness in the same way as Andrew, perhaps she wouldn’t have grown to dread his return, and might have been a more willing wife. Who knows? she thought. Perhaps we might still have been together. And the old guilt came seeping back, drowning out her happiness.
It was another busy afternoon clinic, a special care baby unit follow-up with all the attendant crying and screaming and breast-feeding and consequent nappy-changing. While Jennifer ran backwards and forwards undressing and weighing and measuring and trying to orchestrate the timing so that the next patient was ready for Andrew before he needed to see them, he, of course, was in his element.
‘Anybody would think you liked the smelly, leaky little things,’ she teased, and he grinned.
‘At least they aren’t insubordinate! I mentioned a cup of tea hours ago.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ she laughed, and went and found Beattie, repeating his request.
When she took it in he was busy cooing at another baby, and she rolled her eyes and carried on with her weighing.
‘I must get on,’ he told her later as they cleared up after the last patient. ‘I have to go back and feed Mummy-cat and make sure the kittens are all right, and I ought to check in SCBU before I go home.’
Jennifer laughed and shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured, ‘between the babies and the kittens, you’re just a pushover, aren’t you?’
He shrugged her teasing off with a laugh. ‘That’s my life,’ he said smilingly. ‘Some of us are meant to nurture.’
‘And you do it so beautifully. It’s a shame you aren’t married — all that pampering going to waste.’
‘Are you volunteering?’
Her breath caught in her throat, and she stopped and looked up at him.
‘Are you serious?’
He looked faintly surprised. ‘Yes, I believe I am.’
She searched his craggy, lived-in face for an endless moment, then a slow smile curved her lips. She could do far worse than to hand herself over to this gentle man’s attentions for the rest of her life. Warmth, comfort, security — it had a lot going for it, and she was sure in his gentle hands their lovemaking would be filled with tenderness, if not the passion of first love. Lord knows that can wane, she thought wryly. There was no mention of love, but at their age there were more important things, like Tim. And he would be a wonderful father, of that she was certain.
She looked up into his eyes. ‘You’re sure?’
He nodded slowly. ‘Yes — oh, yes, I’m sure.’
‘Then yes, I believe I am volunteering.’
‘Perhaps you’d better think about it.’
She shook her head. ‘No. There’s nothing to think about.’
He opened his arms and she stepped into them and found herself wrapped hard against his massive chest.
‘You won’t regret it, I promise you,’ he told her, his voice gruff with emotion. ‘I’ll do everything in my power to make you both happy.’
‘You already have,’ she told him, and, tipping back her head, she sealed the pact with a kiss.
TUESDAY was one of those chaotic days when children were sick in the clinic and babies screamed endlessly. Jennifer’s staff nurse, Sarah Bright, was off sick and Peter Travers was coping without an SHO because Maggie Bradshaw, plagued by morning sickness, and given up work three months early and her replacement hadn’t yet materialised.
She hadn’t seen Andrew since the end of yesterday’s clinic as his evening had already been totally committed. Now he was on the wards and she didn’t see him until he popped down at lunchtime and cornered her in the kitchen snatching a cup of coffee.
This place is like Piccadilly. I don’t suppose you can get away?’
She laughed mirthlessly. ‘Are you kidding? This is my first cup of coffee all morning.’
He glanced round and smiled. ‘I suppose I am. Look, I know it’s short notice, but could we make dinner tonight? I could bring a takeaway if you can’t get a babysitter.’
Jennifer shook her head regretfully. ‘No, sorry. Tim has Cubs and it’s impossible to get him organised and fed and into bed at a decent hour. How about tomorrow?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m giving a lecture — oh, damn. Thursday? No, I’m on call again.’
‘The weekend?’ she suggested hopefully. Tim is away with his father…’
Andrew closed his eyes and let out a harsh sigh. ‘I’ve got to go to a conference. Next Monday?’
‘You’re on call again.’
Oh, hell. This is ridiculous.’
She laughed softly. ‘You’ll forget what I look like soon.’
‘No chance,’ he said softly, and his voice held a wealth of warmth and emotion. ‘Marry me soon, Jennifer. Then maybe between midnight and six in the morning we might get time to say hello when we aren’t surrounded by people.’
She chuckled. ‘Do you suppose we can find the time to do the deed?’
‘We’ll make time,’ he growled softly. ‘I must go, you’ve got work to do.’ He leant over and brushed her lips with his, then, turning on his heel, he strode out through the department, exchanging greetings with the secretary on the way past.
She didn’t see him again until the following day, at the paediatric diabetic clinic.
As usual they were rushed off their feet, but at least the load was shared by the dietician.
They had a new patient, a little boy of five who had been admitted in a diabetic coma four weeks previously. He had presented with a history of increased thirst, weight loss and listlessness which his mother had put down to the heat and nerves about returning to school, until the morning she found she couldn’t rouse him. He had been stabilised and was now on insulin and coming back for his first check-up.
‘How are you getting on with Paul’s injections, Mrs Downing?’ Andrew asked his mother.
Oh, not so bad, I suppose. He doesn’t like it very much, but I think we’ve got round it now. If he’s a good boy, I give him a sweetie, don’t I, darling?’
Paul nodded.
‘Um — what sort of sweet, Mrs Downing?’ Andrew asked her.
‘Well, that depends what’s around,’ she said innocently. ‘This morning it was a few squares of chocolate.’
‘Ordinary chocolate?’
‘Yes — well, we tried the diabetic chocolate but it gave him terrible diarrhoea.’
Andrew sighed. ‘Mrs Downing, your son really mustn’t have sweets, they’re very bad for him. In order to keep him stable, he has to have sensible, high-fibre