Doctor's Orders Page 7

  The morning was hard work, and the first patient presented difficult anaesthetic problems. Mike Blakeney snapped orders at Isabel, who responded quickly, the urgency of the situation making her completely forget that the man snapping the orders was the one who had asked her to go to bed with him the night before. All her professional training rose to the surface and, in spite of the difficulties with the first case, the rest of the morning proceeded reasonably smoothly, the patients all recovering well.

  When the lunch time break came, Mr Goldsmith came into the anaesthetic room. Mike Blakeney had already left, taking the last patient to recovery, and Isabel was resetting the anaesthetic room ready for the afternoon operating list.

  “I wouldn’t like to go back to the old days, when surgeons operated without anaesthetists,” remarked Mr Goldsmith, watching Isabel lay up the anaesthetic trolley.

  She laughed. “I think this morning would have been rather difficult,” she agreed. Then she said, “Didn’t they give their patients gin to drink before the operation?”

  Mr Goldsmith roared with laughter. “That was before my time,” he said, “in the days of the barber surgeons. Of course, the best surgeons were the ones that drank the gin themselves!” He roared with laughter again. “That’s a point which is always being thrust under my nose by my brother-in-law, who is an eminent professor of anaesthesia. He says the only reason surgeons are called ‘Mr’ is because they weren’t proper doctors, only skilled barbers!”

  “Really?” said Isabel raising her eyebrows, “I’ve never heard that before.”

  “The nuisance of it is,” grumbled Mr Goldsmith, walking out of the anaesthetic room, “that he is right, and that is why today we are still called ‘Mr.’ However, it is a prestigious title now, I’m glad to say.” He paused at the swing doors. “By the way, thank Mike Blakeney for me for managing that first patient so well. A difficult case.”

  Isabel nodded her head. If he will listen to anything I say she thought, but she couldn’t very well say that to Mr Goldsmith, and as it happened he bumped into the tall anaesthetist just outside the anaesthetic room, and Isabel heard him congratulating Mike on the way he had managed the patient.

  Although she had finished her work in the anaesthetic room, she stayed where she was, waiting in silence for the two men to walk away. The less she saw of Mike Blakeney the better, as far as she was concerned.

  It wasn’t until she reached the canteen that she began to relax a little. As she sat down at the table with her new found friends, she realised just how tense she had been all morning. She felt a physical stiffness. Cliff Peterson was already there, and he made room for her to sit at his side, grinning cheerfully as he did so.

  Gratefully Isabel squeezed in beside him. She felt better already. “Why weren’t you in theatre this morning?” she asked. “I thought you usually assisted Mr Goldsmith?”

  He grimaced. “I had to do an outpatient clinic,” he groaned. “Mr Walters, one of the other general surgeons, was admitted on to the coronary care ward last night. His registrar is away on holiday, so muggins here had to do the clinic.”

  Everyone was concerned to hear about Mr Walters. It seemed he was an elderly consultant surgeon, very near retiring age, and it was obvious to Isabel that he was popular.

  “I think everyone should be forced to retire at sixty,” said Sally Mannering decisively, “surgery is far too demanding to go on with until you are sixty five. No wonder so few of them live to enjoy their retirement.”

  “How is Mr Walters?” Isabel asked Cliff, “is he seriously ill?”

  “He’ll survive,” said Cliff, “I just hope he gets the message and takes early retirement. He ought to. Not like my father,” he added, “he dropped dead six months after he had retired. My mother had never seen much of him during their married life, because he was always at the hospital. Then, when she thought they could go on all the holidays they had planned together…” his voice trailed away.

  “Oh, Cliff, I’m sorry,” impulsively Isabel touched his arm. “Your poor mother, I suppose she worries about you now.”

  Cliff grinned and held on to her hand. “I’ve told her not to. I’m not particularly ambitious. I intend to find myself a nice little niche as a consultant, where I can quietly get on with my job without killing myself, and I shall retire at sixty, if not before.” He smiled, “What I need is a nice sympathetic lass to look after me, to make sure I’m well cared for.”

  Isabel smiled back, but gently withdrew her hand. The way he was looking at her was much too serious for her liking. “I’m sure you’ll find the right girl,” she said firmly, and returned to her lunch. “Just keep looking,” she advised.

  “Do you know, I think I have already found her,” was Cliff’s cryptic reply, but Isabel didn’t rise to the bait and ask who. She had an uncomfortable feeling that he was slotting her into that category.

  Cliff Peterson was nice, although he had quite a reputation with the girls, one which, in Isabel’s opinion at least, he didn’t deserve. But when he had kissed her he hadn’t turned her world upside down! Not like the surly, demanding anaesthetist, who she could see out of the corner of her eye, queuing up to collect his lunch. He was still with Mr Goldsmith, who was talking animatedly. Isabel shrank down a little in her seat, hoping she wouldn’t be noticed as they walked by, but it seemed that some second sense told him that she was there. For he turned his head, and coolly and deliberately looked at her, the cold steel of his glance seeming to pierce right through her. Not a glimmer of a smile or acknowledgement flickered across his handsome face. Defiantly Isabel stared back, she was damned if she would look away first, she had nothing to be ashamed of!

  “What are you doing tonight, Isabel?” The sound of Cliff’s voice cut through her thoughts. He was too busy tucking into his pork pie and salad to notice that she and Mike Blakeney had been fighting a silent duel with their eyes. With one last defiant flash from her sparkling blue eyes, Isabel turned her attention back to Cliff.

  “I’m staying in,” replied Isabel firmly to his question. “I haven’t finished unpacking properly yet, and I’ve got to make out a list of estate agents to go to at the weekend.”

  “Why?” asked Cliff, a forkful of pork pie poised in mid-air, “are you going to buy somewhere of your own?”

  “I might,” said Isabel, “if I can find anywhere cheap enough. Or perhaps I’ll rent. One thing is certain, and that is I don’t want to stay in that tiny room I’ve got.”

  “Huh, you’ve got my sympathy there,” said Cliff. “I bought a house when I moved down here from London, and I should make quite a healthy profit on it when I sell it next year. I had to buy something, I just couldn’t stand hospital accommodation any longer!”

  “Then why are you going to sell it next year?” Isabel was puzzled.

  “When I move on to my next job,” said Cliff by way of explanation. “Registrars only have two-year contracts, you know. When I’m a senior registrar I shall know I can stay somewhere for at least four years.” He laughed, “If you’re still looking this time next year, you can buy my house.”

  “And help you to make a healthy profit,” retorted Isabel. “No, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to afford to do that.”

  Cliff shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly. “It was just an idea,” he said. “Anyway, you may decide to move on from here yourself.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” replied Isabel, looking at the back of Mike Blakeney’s bronzed head across the canteen. It was impossible to miss him, his height and the colour of his hair made him stand out from the crowd. “Yes,” she repeated slowly, “I might have to move on.”

  “That’s a strange thing to say,” said Cliff pouncing on her words. “You won’t have to move on. Anyone who is as good as you are in the anaesthetic room, will always be welcome to stay.”

  Isabel laughed lightly. “I should have used the word ‘want’ not ‘h
ave,’” she said. But she knew when she had said the words that it could easily turn out to be the truth. She was finding Mike Blakeney’s presence disturbing, even at a distance. Already she was beginning to wish heartily that she had never met him. Or, at the very least, that she had never gone back to his house for dinner the night before. Then he would never have kissed her. She sighed, yes, that was the crux of the matter, how she wished he had never kissed her. Talk about stirring up a hornets’ nest, she thought ruefully!

  Cliff didn’t try to persuade her to change her mind about that evening, and for that Isabel was glad. All she wanted at that moment was to get through what she was sure was going to be a difficult afternoon, and have the evening to herself. Apart from anything else, she had a lot of letter writing to do. All her friends in Edinburgh would be wanting to know what life in the balmy south of England was like.

  The afternoon passed uneventfully, much to Isabel’s relief. It was another general surgical list, but with another surgeon, one who Isabel hadn’t seen before. Susie Wee told her that he only did two lists a week at the County General, preferring to spend the rest of his time in a small, but busy, district general hospital in a nearby market town. He was a jolly Welshman, very, very talkative! It was with surprise that Isabel observed that he even got Mike Blakeney talking about rugby. For the first time that day he looked alive, as he sparred with the surgeon on the merits of various rugby teams. He is human after all, she thought grimly, not joining in the conversation, but just watching and listening. She had begun to think that he could switch off his feelings and emotions when he liked, as if he’d been programmed! But the jolly little Welsh surgeon got him to respond in no uncertain manner, rugby obviously being a subject dear to the hearts of both of them. At least I wasn’t wrong in my very first impression, mused Isabel, but unfortunately she had to admit she was probably right in all the other conclusions she had drawn. An attractive man, out to use any woman who happened to suit his whim! Yes, that sums it up, she thought, passing him a syringe almost fiercely.

  In fact, she shoved it into his hand with such force, that he turned and looked at her with surprise. “Thank you,” he said, sounding faintly startled.

  Isabel opened her mouth, she was very tempted to remark on the unexpected thank you, but thought better of it. No point in inviting a snapped rebuff, she thought, as she rewarded him with a watery smile before turning away to pick up another drug ampoule.

  Now and then, when their eyes met briefly over unconscious patients, his expression was always as cool and inscrutable as ever, and Isabel found it as infuriating as ever! What was going on in that handsome head, she wondered. His bronzed hair was covered by the unflattering theatre cap, but one or two stray curling strands had escaped at the nape of his neck, adding to the feeling of physical power that emanated from his muscular form. Isabel looked at them, mesmerised by those curls, then guiltily she tore her straying thoughts away from Mike Blakeney, and concentrated on the activity in the operating theatre. Don’t waste your time, she told herself crossly, you can bet your bottom dollar he hasn’t given you a second glance! At long last the afternoon was over, the surgeon finishing on time, a feat for which everyone was grateful. That night Isabel found she was changing with the rest of the girls. “Are you later, or am I earlier?” she asked. “Usually you’ve all disappeared by the time I get here.”

  “You’re earlier,” said Susie, “are you sure you haven’t forgotten something vital in the anaesthetic room? We don’t want you incurring the eminent Dr Blakeney’s wrath in the morning!”

  Isabel pulled a rude face. “Don’t worry, I’ve done everything,” she assured Susie, “I don’t want to incur his wrath any more than anyone else!” She laughed bitterly, “Although it seems pretty easy to annoy him, and he doesn’t forget it.” Of course, the other girls didn’t know, but Isabel wasn’t thinking about theatre at all, she was thinking back to the moment she had refused his advances in the kitchen. He hadn’t forgiven her for that, she was certain.

  Sally Mannering chipped in, putting her hand on Isabel’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about him, and don’t let him get you down. Didn’t we all tell you he was a cold fish? Although after what Pete has told me I’m not surprised.”

  “What?” Susie turned swiftly, always eager for a titbit of gossip, her black eyes open wide in anticipation.

  Sally hesitated, “Well,” she said, “I don’t suppose it matters if I tell you.”

  “Go on, tell us, we won’t say anything,” said Susie quickly.

  “Apparently,” said Sally, lowering her voice confidentially, “Pete thinks that the reason Mike is so moody is that he was jilted literally at the altar. Well,” she paused, looking round at her attentive audience dramatically, “not quite at the altar actually, half an hour before!”

  Isabel pricked up her ears but said nothing as she continued to change. She knew what it was like to be jilted, but at least Hugh hadn’t waited until the actual day of the wedding, she did have that to be thankful for.

  “She was the daughter of a consultant surgeon in London, a photographic model I believe,” continued Sally, “and Mike Blakeney’s brother was best man.”

  “Go on,” said Susie interrupting impatiently, “we don’t want the family history, give us the facts.”

  “That is the whole point,” said Sally, “she ran off with Mike Blakeney’s brother only half an hour before they were due to go to the church. Can you imagine it? Everyone there, a posh London wedding, top hats and tails, a huge reception planned at Claridges, and then a bombshell like that!”

  “I wonder what they did with all the presents?” said Susie practically. Then she sighed dramatically, “Poor, poor Dr Blakeney. I forgive him everything!” She turned to Isabel. “You’ll have to be nice to him, Isabel,” she said, “cheer him up.”

  “I’ll be nice to him, if he is nice to me,” said Isabel firmly. “I’m sorry for him, of course, but it does happen to other people too, you know. You can’t go around carrying your sorrows on your back in a big sack, sideswiping everyone with them every now and then, just because you feel like it!”

  She saw Susie and Sally staring at her, obviously surprised at her hard-hearted attitude. “Haven’t you got any sympathy for him?” demanded Susie.

  “I’ve just said I have,” snapped Isabel feeling irritable. All this concern over Mike Blakeney, they didn’t know what he was like on the loose! She pulled up the zipper on her jeans viciously and firmly buttoned the top button. “If he was a little more pleasant, he might find himself another girlfriend, then life would be more fun for him, and for everyone else!” she said firmly.

  “Perhaps he has a broken heart,” suggested Susie.

  “Rubbish, there is no such thing as a broken heart,” said Isabel matter-of-factly as she walked out of the door. Pausing in the doorway, she looked back. Sally and Susie were standing staring at her, open mouthed. “Women sometimes do break their hearts as you say, Susie, but men!” she shrugged expressively, “all they want to do is to get you into bed as quickly as possible. Their hearts never break! And as for Dr Blakeney, I sincerely doubt if he has a heart anyway!”

  Flinging the last remark over her shoulder she started to march off purposefully down the corridor, only to become uncomfortably aware that the man in question had emerged from the changing room opposite. To her annoyance she felt herself colouring guiltily. I hope he didn’t overhear that last remark, she found herself thinking, her conscience pricking, but then in the next moment thinking, well, what does it matter if he did! Flashing him what she hoped was a nonchalant, but withering glance she stalked on her way. That’ll give him something to think about she told herself defiantly!

  Later that evening she sat down to write her letter, the one she had been promising herself to write ever since she had arrived from Edinburgh. But time and time again her thoughts strayed back to Mike Blakeney. In spite of her remarks to the other
girls, she did feel sorry for him. “But not sorry enough to go to bed with you, Dr Blakeney,” she half murmured out loud. “I’m not going to become available just to take your mind off the girl you lost!”

  Her letter didn’t get written, and she realised irritably she had wasted most of the evening on fruitless dreaming. Now it was time to go to bed, to be ready for another early start next morning. Sighing, she packed her writing materials together and shoved them in a drawer. Then suddenly the telephone rang. It was an outside call, she knew that because of the single ring, but couldn’t think who would be calling her at that time of night. It was with shaky surprise she heard Mike Blakeney’s voice on the other end of the line.

  “I rang to apologise,” he said coming straight to the point in a disconcerting manner.

  “Apologise!” echoed Isabel warily, hardly able to believe her ears.

  “Yes, about last night,” he said. “It was presumptuous of me, and I’m sorry!”

  “Oh…” stammered Isabel, completely stunned by this new, penitent sounding Mike Blakeney at the other end of the line.

  There was a pause. I wonder if this would be termed a “pregnant pause” Isabel found herself thinking irrationally. “Perhaps we could get to know each other better,” he said, interrupting her irreverent thoughts.

  “Perhaps,” answered Isabel non-committally, not certain whether or not it was a very good idea.

  “I promise to behave myself,” he said quickly, adding with a laugh, “although you might be safer if you wore glasses.”

  “What?” Isabel answered slowly, her brain seemed to have gone quite numb, she couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say, and what was he talking about anyway?