A Man of Honour

‘Freckles,’ she said unnecessarily, and he counted them.

‘Fifteen.’

‘Are you sure? There were twelve this morning.’

He chuckled softly. ‘Is that a fact? I told you you’d caught the sun.’

She opened her eyes and found herself staring straight into his, just bare inches from her face. Her lips parted involuntarily on his name, and for an endless moment she thought he was going to kiss her.

Then he rolled away and stood up. ‘I’m going for a dip—coming?’

‘You shouldn’t swim so soon after eating,’ she told him mechanically.

‘Tough,’ he replied, and there was an edge of hardness in his voice she hadn’t heard before.

She watched him walk away, his long legs eating up the grass in great strides, and wondered what she’d done wrong.

He fell in love with the Barringtons’ cottage on the spot, and Helen strolled round the pretty garden while they agreed a price and decided on a completion date. He had apparently sold his house in Oxford to a cash buyer, and was able to go ahead as quickly as Clare and Michael were willing to.

Helen was very pleased for them all. Tom was so clearly thrilled with the cottage, and on the way home afterwards he positively bubbled with enthusiasm. It was the most animated she had ever seen him, and Helen was secretly delighted. He looked so sad for much of the time, and to see him like this, brimming over with excitement and plans, was a real joy.

It was also infectious, and she found herself laughing as she hadn’t laughed in ages.

And then suddenly, without warning, his mood changed again.

Afterwards she found it difficult to put her finger on exactly what had happened. They were talking about when he was to move in, and he said he’d have to buy furniture. Then she asked how come he’d owned a house and didn’t have any furniture, and that was when he went funny.

‘It was all borrowed,’ he said shortly, ‘and anyway, it’s time for a change.’

And after that he hardly said a word all the way back, and dropped her off outside her flat without even a smile. She was bitterly disappointed, because they had been getting on so well and she’d hoped he would suggest they go somewhere for lunch together—instead of which he had driven off with a stony face and left her alone again.

She let herself into her flat and made a sandwich, then sat by the window looking out into the concrete back yard, relieved only by a sorry-looking lilac that struggled for existence in a crack in the paving.

It was such a contrast to Rose Cottage and Ross’s house that she indulged in a moment of self-pity before changing into tatty old jeans and a T-shirt and picking up the keys of her sensible, middle-of-the-road little car.

‘God, I’m so bored!’ she said savagely as she banged the door of the car. ‘Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored!’

She headed out into the country and found herself in a little village with a winding stream that gurgled under an old brick bridge. Parking the car in a lay-by, she locked it and set off on a hike along the stream.

It was a gorgeous day—a day to share, she thought crossly, and felt suddenly very lonely and sad.

‘There was no guarantee he felt anything for you,’ she told herself firmly as she walked. ‘He’s just as entitled to be as picky as you are—and he’s obviously decided not to pick you. God knows he gave you enough warning—he was hardly all over you. And yesterday—he could have kissed you so easily, but he didn’t. And still you expect miracles!’

‘Pardon?’

She looked up, startled, to find a woman with a dog regarding her strangely. ‘Are you all right, dear?’

She blushed and laughed. ‘Sorry—yes, I’m fine. I was just telling myself off.’

‘On a lovely day like this? What a shame.’ The woman smiled, and Helen smiled back, suddenly happier.

‘Yes, you’re right. It’s much too nice a day to be cross.’

They parted company, the woman and her dog going on the way Helen had come, Helen following the track beside the stream.

She was right, it was a beautiful day, and being cross and ungracious was just a waste of it. She would put Tom out of her mind, and forget him.

Easier said than done, she acknowledged the following morning.

How he had managed it in so short a time she didn’t know, but Tom Russell had winkled his way into her heart in a big way, and it would take more than a little determination to get him out again.

He was quiet and withdrawn when she saw him, but they were so busy that she hardly had time to chat anyway.

Judy Fulcher, the patient with the burst appendix and peritonitis, was making slow but steady progress, althought she was still unable to take anything by mouth. As a result oral care was a very important part of her nursing, and Helen took the opportunity, to sponge off her caked lips and tongue and clean her teeth as a training exercise for Carol, one of the student nurses who had started with her that day.

Judy’s gratitude was touching, and Helen wished she had time to do it better and more often.

However she didn’t, and she was busy with the pre-ops who were due to go up to Tom in Theatre that afternoon.

Trailing her students, she prepared the patients for Theatre, including passing a Ryle’s tube into one man who found the whole experience intolerable and panicked himself into a frenzy.

‘Look, Mr Blackstone,’ she explained for the second time, ‘it really doesn’t hurt. All you have to do is relax as much as possible, take little sips of water and swallow gently, and I’ll just slip the tube down your throat bit by bit. It’s really not that bad.’

He snorted and put his hand over his face. ‘I’m not having no bloody tube poked down my throat!’ he mumbled.

‘Please let me try,’ she coaxed. After a few more minutes he lowered his hand, and, taking the lubricated tube, she lifted it towards his nose.

‘No,’ he moaned, and covered his face again.

Tom arrived just as she was soothing the man down for the third time, and with his help she managed to calm him sufficiently to try again.

This time she actually succeeded, much to her relief, and afterwards, when the tube was taped in place and the man’s stomach had been aspirated and he was settled, Tom drew Helen aside.

‘You were wonderful with him,’ he said gently, and the sun came out for her again.

Foolish heart, she chided herself, and tugged off her gloves. Her smile was coolly impersonal.

‘He’s just a big baby. What can I do for you?’

He sighed quietly. ‘Could we go round the pre-ops? Do you have time? I wanted a last word with them.’

Her heart sank. She had thought—oh, never mind what she had thought. She forced another smile. ‘Of course. Susan, clear up the trolley could you, please? And then start the lunches. Carol can give you a hand. Oh, and Susan?’

‘Don’t forget to read the menu list,’ the third-year student said with a grin. ‘OK, Sister.’

Helen watched her go. ‘Scatty as the day is long, but willing. Right, where were we?’

The rest of the day was hectic, and that suited Helen just fine, because the last thing she needed was time to think about Tom. She felt she had come within an ace of making a complete fool of herself over him, and he so clearly wasn’t interested.

Oh, well.

She was just going off duty at five when she heard a commotion in Judy Fulcher’s room.

The door was shut, most unusually, and when she opened it she saw to her horror that Judy’s husband was sprawled across the bed, his trousers round his ankles, and Judy was sobbing and pleading with him as he dragged her nightdress up.

For a second Helen was so stunned she did nothing, but then she leant on the bell over the bed and seized his shoulders.

He shrugged her off, and she stumbled back, steadying herself on the locker.

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ she asked furiously, and grabbed hold of him again, determined to drag him off. He flung her aside and she landed on the floor with a crash, shaken but not seriously hurt. She was more worried about Judy, still struggling with her half-crazed husband.

As she crawled to the door for help, so Tom appeared in the doorway and with one look at the scene stepped over her and hauled the man off, slamming him up against the wall.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?’ he roared. ‘She’s ill, for God’s sake!’

‘She’s always ill!’ he snarled. ‘Always got some damn excuse or other. I’ve got rights, you know, and I haven’t had it for months!’

‘What about her rights?’ Tom yelled into his face. ‘What kind of an animal are you that she’s lying there after a major abdominal operation and all you can think about is getting your leg over?’

Helen tried not to smile. Tom was so furious with the man it would be a miracle if the latter survived intact!

She stood up, dusted herself down and went to make sure that Judy was all right.

Ruth Warnes had heard the bell and come to help, and between them they settled Judy down again and made sure her drip hadn’t become dislodged, while Tom hauled up the man’s trousers with more vigour than was strictly necessary and dragged him off to the office.

Judy was crying, and Helen left Ruth comforting her and went to phone the hospital security. Just as she got through there was a crash from her office, and she put the phone down after begging the security officer to hurry and ran into the office, to find Mr Fulcher pinned to the floor, Tom with blood running down his face and glass everywhere.

‘Security’s coming,’ she said briefly, and Tom nodded.

‘Fine. Just so long as they’re quick, before I’m tempted to run this bloke through with a scalpel.’

‘He threatened me!’ Fulcher mumbled against the floor. ‘Did you hear that? Threatened me, he did.’

‘I shouldn’t let it worry you,’ Helen said drily, eyeing Tom’s bleeding eyebrow. ‘He’s the one running with blood. Are you going to press charges, Tom?’

‘If I don’t bleed to death first,’ he muttered. ‘Where the hell are they?’

Just then the security staff came running in and Tom stood up, handing his charge over to the uniformed officials.

‘Lock him up till the police get here,’ he said shortly.

‘Right, sir,’ one of them muttered, and then they hauled the man to his feet and marched him out of the office.

Helen shut the door and turned to Tom. He was pale, trembling slightly with reaction, and the cut over his eye was still welling blood.

‘You look awful—sit down and let me look at that.’

He tipped the broken glass off the chair and sat down obediently, tipping his head back so that she could examine the cut.

‘What on earth did he hit you with?’ she asked incredulously.

‘The coffee-jug—ouch!’

‘Sorry. It’s a good job it was empty.’ She probed again, and he flinched. ‘There’s a bit of glass left in there, and it’ll need a stitch. Do you want to go down to A and E?’

He peered up at her from under his eyebrows. ‘Can’t you do it?’

She looked doubtful. ‘I can, but—I might leave a scar.’

‘Shame,’ he said softly. ‘Just stitch it, Helen.’

She took him into the treatment-room and made him get on the couch.

‘Don’t bother with the lignocaine,’ he told her as she picked up the syringe. ‘If it’s only one stitch it’ll hurt less just to do it.’

She shrugged and washed her hands, then opened the suture pack, swabs and antiseptic before pulling on gloves. It was his head, she reasoned. If he wanted it stitched without a local, so be it. And anyway, he was probably right, a local anaesthetic did hurt.

She lifted out the glass and swabbed the cut with antiseptic, and he winced and flinched.

‘Sorry—that’s probably the worst bit.’

‘God, I hope so,’ he said with a weak attempt at humour. ‘It brings the tears to your eyes.’

‘Just tough it out, cowboy,’ she told him firmly. ‘You wanted it this way—OK, hang on, here it comes.’

He didn’t move a millimetre, but she could see the muscle jumping in his jaw and knew it was hurting him.

‘OK, all done,’ she said seconds later, and snipped the suture.

He sagged back against the couch and shot her a weak smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘Sadist.’

She snorted and wiped the skin around the cut dry before putting on a couple of butterfly sutures each side of the stitch. ‘It was your idea to play the hero,’ she told him laughingly.

‘Hmm. Remind me next time not to bother,’ he said with a smile, and her stupid heart went into overdrive again.

She turned away, clearing up the debris from her suturing, and he was so quiet she thought he’d fallen asleep. Then his hand rested lightly on her arm and turned her towards him.

‘About yesterday…’

She forced herself to meet his eyes.

‘What about it?’

‘I’m sorry I got ratty. It’s just—the furniture was a bit of an issue in the past. You just hit a nerve. I’m sorry I was short with you.’

All the lectures she had given herself over the past twenty-four hours went out of the window at a stroke. She knew the smile must have lit up her eyes, but there was nothing she could do about it.

‘Forget it,’ she told him. ‘I thought it must be something I’d said or done to irritate you ——’

‘No. No, Helen, it was nothing to do with you. You’ve been marvellous.’

He sat up and swung his legs over the side, and his mouth quirked into that fleeting smile again.

‘Forgive me?’

‘Of course I forgive you,’ she said softly, and wondered if her heart would stand the strain of that wretched smile.

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