The Real Christmas Message

‘Well, anyway,’ Dr Cunningham put his empty glass down on the small side-table, ‘you’ve no need to concern yourself about a general practioner’s burdens—as a surgeon your on-call duties will be arduous but infrequent—and they’ll be mapped out for you.’

‘But Nick is——’ pouted Annabel, when Nick interrupted her.

‘I think we’ve talked enough shop for one meal.’ His tone was light, but Lara thought that there was an unmistakable warning in it, and that the blue-grey eyes had turned distinctly chilly. She wondered what Annabel had been about to say.

Dr Cunningham turned to Annabel. ‘Nick’s right—too much shop can be tedious—his mother used to say exactly the same thing! Are you connected with medicine, Annabel?’

Annabel gave a tinkly laugh. ‘Oh, no—not me! Nothing so noble! I’m one of that rare breed, I’m ashamed to admit. I act.’

Dr Cunningham beamed. ‘An actress? My dear, how splendid! What have you done?’ His eyes grew dreamy. ‘More a Celia than an Ophelia, am I right? Less of a Cleopatra, and more of a Katharine, am I correct?’

‘What?’ Annabel looked at him blankly.

‘Shakespeare, darling,’ interposed Nick hastily. ‘Annabel’s not exactly into Shakespeare, Dad. More into soap-powder commercials, actually. She’s a model, really.’

‘I am not! Nicky, sweetheart—you know that isn’t true!’

I can’t stand a minute more of this, thought Lara fiercely. What on earth was he doing with such a lightweight, feather-brained, beautiful dolt as this one? What a waste.

She stood up. ‘I’d better go and baste the turkey, and see about the spuds,’ she said.

‘What talents,’ trilled Annabel. ‘I can’t even boil an egg!’

Well, bully for you, thought Lara as she headed for the door.

Nick had got to his feet. ‘Shall I come and help you, Lara?’

‘No,’ she answered hastily. ‘Too many cooks and all that. . .’ The last thing she wanted was to be marooned in the kitchen with him, cooking a meal together, wishing that he’d come here on his own, seen her, and fallen in love. And you’re too old for fairy-stories, she told herself fiercely, as she added butter and sugar to the carrots julienne.

To her surprise, despite her preoccupations, the lunch was a great success, and Nick proposed a toast to the chef.

‘Tell me, are you sure you aren’t a professional cook?’ he asked, the blue-grey eyes twinkling in a way which she wished she didn’t find quite so devastatingly attractive. ‘What are you like as a nurse?’

‘She’s better,’ said Dr Cunningham instantly. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without Lara.’

You’d rely on your son more, thought Lara. He’d have to come to see you more often. She wanted to concentrate on his bad points; she didn’t want to like him. There was no point.

‘I could never be a nurse,’ grimaced Annabel. ‘All that blood and gore!’

No one challenged her, and Nick stood up to begin clearing away the plates when the phone rang.

John Cunningham answered it, and they heard a series of delighted responses. When eventually he put the receiver down, he turned to Lara with a wide smile.

‘Baby Rawlins is in the clear,’ he declared, looking as if he’d just won the jackpot.

Lara saw Nick looking interested. ‘Baby Rawlins had a bad attack of whooping cough,’ she explained. ‘I expect you know there’s been a bad epidemic recently.’

‘Oh, surgeons never know about things like that!’ interposed Dr Cunningham jovially.

‘Your father admitted him on the twentieth,’ continued Lara.

‘They’ve discharged him home for Christmas Day,’ smiled Dr Cunningham. ‘His father’s home, and they’re all together.’ He brushed his eye with the back of his hand. ‘I said I’d pop over, just to see him settled. Would you mind? Can the pudding wait, Lara?’

What a superb doctor he was, she thought fondly. ‘Of course it can wait,’ she smiled. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

He shook his head. ‘If you’re here, it means I don’t have to put the phone over to the answering service.’

After he’d gone, there was a moment or two of awkward silence, broken only by the clattering of cutlery on china as Nick continued to clear the dishes away. Lara wondered idly if he was a true ‘new man’ or whether it was just that Annabel was so lazy that he’d got used to doing all the chores!

The phone started to ring again, and Lara moved to answer it.

‘Is it always as busy as this?’ complained Annabel, and Nick grinned conspiratorially at Lara.

‘Busy?’ he exclaimed. ‘This is quiet!’

Lara began to take details. The call disturbed her, and yet she couldn’t put a finger on why. She opened her mouth to form more questions to ask the patient, when they were cut off. The woman had been calling from a phone box.

She frowned as she replaced the handset.

‘What’s up?’ asked Nick.

She shook her head. ‘Something. Nothing. I don’t know.’

‘Need a second opinion?’ he suggested gently.

She looked at him gratefully. ‘It was such a vague history. A woman with “funny” pains in her stomach.’

‘And Dad can go and see her when he gets back. What’s the problem?’

‘He’s likely to spend ages with the Rawlins baby.’

‘Then bleep him,’ said Nick.

She shook her head. ‘He’s trained me only to bleep him if it’s urgent. And it doesn’t sound urgent. And yet. . .’

‘And yet you’ve got a hunch?’ he ventured.

‘Exactly,’ she agreed.

‘Then you’ve got to bleep him,’ said Nick.

‘I know.’

But Dr Cunningham didn’t answer his bleep, and Lara began to grow restless. She eventually got through to the Rawlins family on the phone, to be told that he’d only just left. And they lived on the periphery of the practice area. Miles away.

Nick saw her glance at her watch for the fortieth time. ‘What do you want to do?’ he asked.

‘What can I do?’ she asked desperately. ‘She isn’t on the phone, and I certainly can’t call an ambulance on a hunch. I guess I’ll just have to wait until your father gets back.’

Nick stared at her. ‘Get your coat,’ he said decisively.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded Annabel petulantly.

‘Lara and I are going to see the patient,’ he explained.

‘But you’re not. . . I mean, you can’t. . .’ stumbled Lara.

‘I’m not her doctor, it’s true,’ he agreed. ‘Although I’ve done locums for Dad in the past. I’ll just come along for the ride. We’ll go in and see how she is. If it’s a false alarm, fine. But if you need a doctor—for whatever reason—then I’m there.’

His calm assurances warmed her and she smiled. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and then turned to the grumpy-looking Annabel.

‘I’ve switched the phone back over to the answering service. Could you explain to Dr Cunningham where we’ve gone?’ she asked. ‘Tell him I’ll ring if we need him.’

‘OK,’ muttered Annabel sulkily.

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