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take away the pain. Go to my car; there’s a phone between the front seats. Phone this Dobbs, tell him what has happened and say that you’ll bring the car back as soon as possible.’ He turned his back on Mrs Trent, looming over Emma so that she had to crane her neck to see his face. ‘I am sure that your mother has a perforated ulcer, which means surgery as soon as possible.’
She stared up at him, pale with shock, unable to think of anything to say. She nodded once and ran back to his car, and by the time she had made her call she had seen him lift her mother gently and carry her to the car. They made her comfortable on the back seat and Emma was thankful to see that her mother appeared to be dozing. ‘She’ll be all right? You’ll hurry, won’t you? I’ll drive on until I can turn and then I’ll come to the hospital— which one?’
‘The Royal Devon and Exeter—you know where it is?’ He got into his car and began to reverse down the lane. If the circumstances hadn’t been so dire, she would have stayed to admire the way he did it—with the same ease as if he were going forwards.
She got into her car, then, and drove on for a mile or more before she came to a rough track leading on to the moor, where she reversed and drove back the way she had come. She was shaking now, in a panic that her mother was in danger of her life and she wouldn’t reach the hospital in time, but she forced herself to drive carefully. Once she reached the main road and turned on to the carriageway, it was only thirteen miles to Exeter…
She forced herself to park the car neatly in the hospital forecourt and walk, not run, in through the casualty entrance. There, thank heaven, they knew who she was and why she had come. Sister, a cosy body with a soft Devon voice, came to meet her.
‘Miss Trent? Your mother in is Theatre; the professor is operating at the moment. You come and sit down in the waiting-room and a nurse will bring you a cup of tea—you look as though you could do with it. Your mother is in very good hands, and as soon as she is back in her bed you shall go and see her. In a few minutes I should like some details, but you have your tea first.’
Emma nodded; if she had spoken she would have burst into tears; her small world seemed to be tumbling around her ears. She drank her tea, holding the cup in both hands since she was still shaking, and presently, when Sister came back, she gave her the details she needed in a wooden little voice. ‘Will it be much longer?’ she asked.
Sister glanced at the clock. ‘Not long now. I’m sure you’ll be told the moment the operation is finished. Will you go back to Buckfastleigh this evening?’
‘Could I stay here? I could sit here, couldn’t I? I wouldn’t get in anyone’s way.’
‘If you are to stay we’ll do better than that, my dear. Do you want to telephone anyone?’
Emma shook her head. ‘There’s only Mother and me.’ She tried to smile and gave a great sniff. ‘So sorry, it’s all happened so suddenly.’
‘You have a nice cry if you want to. I must go and see what’s happening. There’s been a street-fight and we’ll be busy…’
Emma sat still and didn’t cry—when she saw her mother she must look cheerful—so that when somebody came at last she turned a rigidly controlled face to hear the news.
Dr Wyatt was crossing the room to her. ‘Your mother is going to be all right, Emma.’ And then he held her in his arms as she burst into tears.
EMMA didn’t cry for long but hiccuped, sniffed, sobbed a bit and drew away from him to blow her nose on the handkerchief he offered her.
‘You’re sure? Was it a big operation? Were you in the theatre?’
‘Well, yes. It was quite a major operation but successful, I’m glad to say. You may see your mother; she will be semi-conscious but she’ll know that you are there. She’s in Intensive Care just for tonight. Tomorrow she will go to a ward—’ He broke off as Sister joined them.
‘They’re wanting you on Male Surgical, sir—urgently.’
He nodded at Emma and went away.
‘Mother’s going to get well,’ said Emma. She heaved a great sigh. ‘What would I have done if Dr Wyatt hadn’t been driving down the lane when Mother was taken ill? He works here as well as taking over the practice at home?’
Sister looked surprised and then smiled. ‘Indeed he works here; he’s our Senior Consultant Surgeon, although he’s supposed to be taking a sabbatical, but I hear he’s helping out Dr Treble for a week or two.’
‘So he’s a surgeon, not a GP?’
Sister smiled again. ‘Sir Paul Wyatt is a professor of surgery, and much in demand for consultations, lecturetours and seminars. You were indeed fortunate that he happened to be there when you needed help so urgently.’
‘Would Mother have died, Sister?’
‘Yes, love.’
‘He saved her life…’ She would, reflected Emma, do anything—anything at all—to repay him. Sooner or later there would be a chance. Perhaps not for years, but she wouldn’t forget.
She was taken to see her mother then, who was lying in a tangle of tubes, surrounded by monitoring screens but blessedly awake. Emma bent to kiss her white face, her own face almost as white. ‘Darling, everything’s fine; you’re going to be all right. I’ll be here and come and see you in the morning after you’ve had a good sleep.’
Her mother frowned. ‘Queenie,’ she muttered.
‘I’ll phone Mr Dobbs and ask him to put some food outside the cat-flap.’
‘Yes, do that, Emma.’ Mrs Trent closed her eyes.
Emma turned at the touch on her arm. ‘You’re going to stay for the night?’ A pretty, young nurse smiled at her. ‘There’s a rest-room on the ground floor; we’ll call you if there’s any need but I think your mother will sleep until the morning. You can see her before you go home then.’
Emma nodded. ‘Is there a phone?’
‘Yes, just by the rest-room, and there’s a canteen down the corridor where you can get tea and sandwiches.’
‘You’re very kind.’ Emma took a last look at her mother and went to the rest-room. There was no one else there and there were comfortable chairs and a table with magazines on it. As she hesitated at the door the sister from Casualty joined her.
‘There’s a washroom just across the passage. Try and sleep a little, won’t you?’
When she had hurried away Emma picked up the phone. Mr Dobbs was sympathetic and very helpful—of course he’d see to Queenie, and Emma wasn’t to worry about the car. ‘Come back when you feel you can, love,’ he told her. ‘And you’d better keep the car for a day or two so’s you can see your ma as often as possible.’
Mrs Smith-Darcy was an entirely different kettle of fish. ‘My luncheon party,’ she exclaimed. ‘You will have to come back tomorrow morning and see to it; I am not strong enough to cope with it—you know how delicate I am. It is most inconsiderate of you…’
‘My mother,’ said Emma, between her teeth, ‘in case you didn’t hear what I have told you, is dangerously ill. I shall stay here with her as long as necessary. And you are not in the least delicate, Mrs Smith-Darcy, only spoilt and lazy and very selfish!’
She hung up, her ear shattered by Mrs Smith-Darcy’s furious bellow. Well, she had burnt her boats, cooked her goose and would probably be had up for libel—or was it slander? She didn’t care. She had given voice to sentiments she had choked back for more than a year and she didn’t care.
She felt better after her outburst, even though she was now out of work. She drank