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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
‘SHE’S up to something, you know—have I told you the latest?’
Jo’s lips twitched at her friend’s outraged tone. ‘Which particular latest?’
Maggie Wells straightened from the incubator and grinned wryly.
‘Lucinda’s not going on the cruise. Says she thinks her health isn’t up to it—something about lassitude and being very run down.’
‘Maybe she is?’
Maggie snorted. ‘Lucinda? That old rascal’s as strong as an ox. She doesn’t know the meaning of the word lassitude! She’s on more committees than I’ve had hot dinners, and if she isn’t arranging the flowers in the cathedral she’s at some RMBF lunch party or else hatching my nuptials with her cronies. No, if I know my grandmother, there’s something sinister behind it, and I’ll give you three guesses what!’
‘You could always give in and marry one of these eligible young men——’
‘Are you kidding? I neither want nor need Lucinda’s help to find a husband. I’m quite capable of doing it on my own.’
‘Are you? When did you last go out for a serious date with a man you wanted to be with?’
Maggie met Jo’s eyes with habitual honesty. ‘I’m not sure I ever have, but one thing I am sure of— my grandmother isn’t any better at finding my Mr Right than I am!’
She jotted a reading down on the baby’s chart, and smiled at Jo. ‘Amy’s improving.’
They both looked at the baby, still unbelievably tiny but stronger with every day that passed. Her young, tragically drug-addicted mother had committed suicide the day after her birth, leaving a note putting the baby in Jo’s care. All that remained was to convince the Social Services that Jo and her new husband Alex were suitable adoptive parents—and that was by no means a foregone conclusion.
‘How are the adoption proceedings going?’ Maggie asked now, and Jo shrugged and gave a strained smile.
‘Slow, intrusive, very thorough. They have to be, don’t they? After all, Amy’s the important one.’
Maggie nodded. ‘I hope—you know …’
‘Yes—thanks, Maggie.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Have you got time for a quick coffee? I promised Annie I’d meet her at eleven.’
‘It’ll have to be a quick one.’
They left the quiet bustle of the special care baby unit and made their way down in the lift.
As the doors opened they met Alex Carter, Jo’s husband, and he dropped a kiss on Jo’s lips and smiled. ‘Ships in the night—how’s Amy?’
‘Better.’
‘Great—I’ll try and pop up later. Must go—I’ve got an emergency section. I don’t suppose you’ve got time to assist, Jo?’
‘Well—as it’s you …!’ She grinned at Maggie. ‘Duty calls, I’m afraid.’
Maggie watched as the lift doors slid shut on them, Jo tall and slender with enviable curves and a wild mane of dark red hair, Alex taller still, and good-looking in a soberly distinguished sort of way. Sober, that was, until you caught the way he looked at his wife.
Maggie felt an unexpected pang of envy. For all she complained about her grandmother’s conniving and matchmaking, she would love nothing more than to settle down with the right man.
She sighed. Perhaps she was just too darned fussy?
She found Anne Gabriel in the canteen, and explained that Jo had had to assist Alex with an emergency.
Anne nodded. ‘I just admitted her. Antepartum haemorrhage. If all goes well, you’ll have another baby upstairs to deal with.’
Maggie dropped into the low chair and sipped her coffee. They’ll be a few minutes yet. I’d better make the most of it.’
They look happy, don’t they?’ Anne said after a moment, and Maggie noticed that she looked wistful.
She gave a tiny, humourless laugh. ‘Yes, they do. I was just envying them a minute ago.’
Anne smiled. ‘Me too. Never mind, perhaps you’ll meet someone on this cruise—where are you going?’
‘Singapore and the Indonesian Islands—except I don’t think I am. My grandmother’s pulled out—says she’s ill.’
‘Oh, dear! Anything serious?’
Maggie snorted. ‘You jest. No, she’s up to something. I expect the captain is the emotionally crippled son of one of her bridge partners!’
Anne laughed. ‘Anyway, why does that stop you going?’
‘Well, I can’t go without her—she’s paid for my ticket so that I can accompany her. It wouldn’t be moral——’
Anne stared at her in amazement. ‘Are you nuts? She’s loaded! She could pay for that cruise out of her small change! I think you should go—she obviously intends you to.’
‘That,’ Maggie said wryly, ‘is what bothers me.’ She sipped her coffee again, and then met Anne’s eyes over the top of the cup. ‘Of course, it’s always possible that she really is sick … Perhaps I’ll go and see her.’
‘You do that—on the way to the airport! And if you decide not to go, give me a shout. I’ll take your ticket any day. I could cope with a week of luxury in the Far East!’
‘Ten days.’
‘Even better!’
Just then Maggie’s bleep went, and with a resigned sigh she put down her coffee. ‘I’ll keep you posted,’ she promised, and made her way over to the wall phone.
‘Dr Wells—you bleeped me.’
‘Oh, yes, Dr Wells, you’re wanted in Obstetric Theatre Two, please,’ the switchboard operator told her.
Maggie arrived in Theatre to find Alex and Jo just about to deliver the premature baby whose mother had had an antepartum haemorrhage.
‘Do we know the gestational age?’ she asked.
‘Twenty-six weeks,’ Alex said tersely, ‘and he doesn’t look any too large.’
As she was handed the tiny slippery mite, she bit her lip and frowned.
‘It’s going to be touch and go—he looks pretty flat,’ she said to no one in particular. ‘Let’s get him sucked out and get some oxygen into him, and I think he’s going to need surfactant. Could somebody call Peter Travers?’
Behind her she was conscious of Alex’s quiet requests and directions, and Jo’s calm response as they struggled to control the haemorrhage.
‘That’s more like it,’ Alex murmured, and Maggie felt the atmosphere lift a little. ‘How’s the baby?’
She shrugged. ‘Iffy. I’m doing what I can.’
‘It’s all we can do,’ Alex said steadyingly, continuing his fight for the mother.
Peter Travers, the head of Maggie’s firm, came into the room and took one look at the baby before shaking his head.
‘This one’s going to be all uphill,’ he muttered, warming his stethoscope and running it over the baby’s chest. ‘He’s got a murmur—it may settle.’ His voice was devoid of hope. ‘Right, let’s get him into SCBU and wire him up. He’s got this far, you never know.’
But he didn’t make it, and it was Maggie who was with the little boy and his father when he died. His mother had seen him and held him briefly when she came round, but her condition was still very weak and, apart from Maggie, the baby’s father was the only one there when he slipped qietly away.
Mr Grainger lifted his eyes to Maggie’s, and they were dazed with shock and pain. ‘He’s gone …’ he whispered.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Maggie said heavily, and, opening the incubator, she lifted out the tiny body and placed it in the man’s arms, and then she held him and cried with him as he cradled his tiny son.
‘Nicky’ll be heartbroken,’ he said gruffly, and his voice cracked.
‘Yes, she will,’ Maggie told him gently. ‘She’ll need time to come to terms with it. I’ll ask Mr Carter if he thinks she’s strong enough to be told, but on the whole it’s best not to drag out her hopes for long. I expect she’ll want to hold him again while he’s still warm, and we’ll take photographs of him, and keep his clothes for you so you’ll be able to remember him.’
The man looked worried. ‘Is that a good idea? All those reminders?’
Maggie nodded. ‘You won’t need reminders, Mr Grainger. You’ll both think of him often, and he’ll always be real to you. He is real. Memories can be a great comfort, and we try and give you as many memories as we can to take with you.’
‘What will they do with—with him?’
Maggie brushed the tiny baby’s cheek with her knuckle. ‘He’ll be taken to the mortuary, and any time you or your wife want to see him you only have to ask and you can hold him if you want, as many times as you need to, and then, when you’re ready, he’ll have a funeral just like anybody else.’
‘They don’t … incinerate …?’
Maggie shook her head, understanding his fears. ‘No. He’s a person, just like any other person. His death is just as real, just as important as anyone else’s. Remember that. You have a right to your grief, and to proper recognition of his short life. Did he have a name?’
Mr Grainger swallowed hard. ‘Samuel.’
That’s a lovely name. He’s a beautiful baby.’
Samuel’s father cradled the tiny body against his chest. ‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’ His voice, for all its sadness, was full of wonder. He turned to Maggie. ‘Thank you for explaining——’
She shook her head helplessly. ‘You’re welcome. Do you want to be alone with him for a while?’
He nodded blindly.
‘I’ll phone Mr Carter.’
She walked quickly away, took a second to compose herself and picked up the phone. Alex was on the ward and came up immediately, sparing her a quick squeeze on the shoulder.
‘Sorry—it’s awful, isn’t it?’ he said quietly.
Maggie left him dealing with the man and made her way into Amy’s cubicle. Because of the possibility that she had been contaminated with the HIV virus by her mother, Amy was nursed in isolation, and it gave Maggie the solitude she needed to pull herself together.
At least this was one baby who was beginning to respond to treatment. She had stopped twitching, and now at five weeks old she was breathing independently, beginning to suck for herself and was nearly ready to go home. No doubt once Christmas was over she would be allocated to a foster mother until her adoption was decided. Maggie just hoped that the woman would be flexible and receptive to Jo, because she was going to have a hell of a fight on her hands if she intended to keep them apart!
As if her thoughts had produced her from thin air, Jo appeared behind Maggie and touched her shoulder gently.
‘OK, Maggie?’ she asked softly.
Maggie sniffed. ‘Yes. Just—it’s such a waste.’
Jo nodded. ‘You win some, you lose some. Are you off duty?’
‘Yes—I think I’ll go and tackle my grandmother on the subject of her suddenly precarious health.’
Jo chuckled. ‘Good idea. Give her my love.’
‘Not until I’ve strangled her!’ she replied with a strained laugh. ‘See you tomorrow.’
She drove her little VW Polo back to her flat, the converted middle floor of a Victorian pile in the old part of town, and, running upstairs, she lit the gas fire, kicked off her shoes and let down her long red-gold hair before picking up the phone and settling comfortably in the armchair by the fire.
‘Lucinda? Hi—it’s Maggie. How are you?’
‘Oh, Margaret, darling, how lovely to hear from you. I’ll be all right—just a little weak, that’s all, darling. Don’t worry about me.’
Maggie twiddled the flex of the phone, winding her finger into the coils. ‘I thought I’d come and see you——’
‘Oh, no, goodness, dear! That would never do! I think it’s a touch of flu, actually, and that’s positively the last thing you need with all those tiny babies you come in contact with. No, no, dear, you stay away, do you understand?’
Maggie’s lips twisted into a wry smile.
‘I understand, Grannie, darling.’
‘Don’t call me that, dear—so ageing! Anyway, now, are you all set to go?’
Old fraud, Maggie thought fondly. There wasn’t a trace of a fluey cough or sniff, and she sounded about as weak as a barracuda.
‘Yes, I’m all set, but I don’t think I should go without you——’
‘Nonsense! You need a holiday, darling, more than I do. You must go, otherwise I shall feel obliged to drag myself out of my sick bed and accompany you, and God knows what that’ll do to my precarious health!’
‘God knows!’ Maggie agreed drily. ‘Anyway, I could do with some company later—maybe I will drop in just for a short while—I promise to keep out of your way so I won’t catch anything.’
‘No! No, Margaret, you mustn’t! I simply forbid it!’ her grandmother all but shrieked, then, collecting herself almost audibly, she continued in a noticeably weaker voice, ‘Anyway, darling, I thought I’d have an early night. What was it you wanted to see me about?’
Your interview for RADA, Maggie thought ruefully, and then remembered.
‘Oh, nothing drastic. I just had a rotten day.’
She told her grandmother all about Samuel Grainger, and Lucinda tutted and ooed and oh, deared and made all the right noises.
‘You must have a holiday, darling,’ she ended, ‘otherwise you’ll get dreadfully depressed and you’ll get wrinkles. So ageing. You go.’
‘Yes, Grannie,’ she replied, and cut off the protest with a kiss. ‘I’ll try and pop over on Christmas Day if not before, but anyway I’ll come and see you before I leave,’ she promised.
In fact she didn’t get a chance before Christmas Day, and even then she was working.
Christmas Day on the paediatric wards was hectic from start to finish, the normal routine squeezed into half the time to allow for the obligatory merrymaking, with Peter Travers dressed up as Father Christmas and Maggie forced to play the Fairy Godmother in a little panto they put on in the afternoon.
She finally got away at seven o’clock in the evening for a short while, and, without even stopping to change out of her working clothes, she drove the short distance to the smart side of town and pulled up outside her grandmother’s house. There were lights blazing in all the downstairs rooms, and a very new-looking Mercedes dominated the drive. She squeezed in behind it and, picking up the parcel which contained some very lacy and extremely ungrandmotherly underwear, Maggie slipped out of the car and walked up to the front window. Peering in, she saw her grandmother dancing with a tall, distinguished-looking man in his seventies, at a guess, and remarkably good-looking for his age.
They were obviously alone, and totally absorbed in each other’s company. Mesmerised, Maggie watched her grandmother flirt outrageously with her handsome escort.
Her head was thrown back, and even through the glass Maggie could hear the light ripple of coquettish laughter emanating from Lucinda’s enviably well-preserved throat—a throat Maggie was tempted to wrap her fingers round and squeeze firmly!
The lousy old fraud! she thought crossly, and then hesitated, her hand raised to rap on the glass. Why not go along with her? She might not be ill now, but she was getting on, and plotting the romantic downfall of Maggie’s spinsterhood was one of the greatest pleasures of her old age.
‘Oh, hell, how can it hurt to allow her her fun?’ Maggie muttered. ‘And she’s right—I do need a holiday.’
So she rang the doorbell, cheerfully wished a Merry Christmas to the tall stranger who opened the door, kissed her grandmother solicitously on the cheek, pretended not to notice the slightly heightened colour or the litter of sherry glasses, and perched beside Lucinda on the couch, eyeing her thoughtfully.
‘You do look a little peaky, darling—and a bit breathless. Perhaps you’re right—it’s a long flight.’
‘But you will go without me, won’t you?’
Maggie stifled her smile. ‘Yes, I’ll go. I expect there’ll be a lot of boring old fuddy-duddies, but perhaps there’ll be some nice young officer to cheer me up,’ she said naughtily.
She inadvertently intercepted the look her grandmother and the stranger exchanged, and fiddled with the present to cover her sudden need to laugh. That stage wink! So he was in on it, too, was he?
‘Is that for me?’
‘Yes—saucy undies. Happy Christmas, darling.’
‘Oh, Margaret, how sweet—Gerald, pass me that envelope from the mantelpiece, would you?’ She pressed it into Maggie’s hand. ‘Just a little spending money and your ticket—have a lovely time.’
‘I will. Bless you. I’ll take lots of photos. And Grannie,’ she admonished, ‘you haven’t introduced me to your guest.’
‘How rude of me! Darling, this is Gerald Palmer, an old friend from simply years ago …’ She waved her hand to indicate possibly several decades—or even centuries. ‘Gerald, my granddaughter, Margaret——’
‘Maggie,’ Maggie corrected.
‘Enchanted, my dear,’ Mr Palmer murmured as he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘So like your grandmother at your age—I would have known you anywhere.’
Well, no wonder she looks a little breathless! Maggie thought as she excused herself and left them to continue their merrymaking. The man overflowed with charm. She instantly forgave him his part in the conspiracy—and her grandmother. They were probably helpless to defend themselves against each other! But she did rather wonder about his part in it all …
Dawn was just breaking over the sea as the Singapore Airlines flight touched down in Changi Airport. It was the thirtieth of December, and England was in the grip of a sudden, biting freeze.
As Maggie stepped from the plane and lifted her face to the sun, she was flooded with warmth and a sudden, unexpected surge of excitement.
The last week had been hectic and exhausting, and she was so tired after the previous eighteen months that she had slept right through the flight. Now it seemed as if she had woken to a dream world.
Once in the terminal building, she retrieved her luggage, and, after clearing Customs, referred to her instructions and proceeded to the allocated rendezvous point.
There her party was warmly welcomed by a young ship’s officer, who checked them all off on a list, ensured that they all had their luggage and then shepherded them to a waiting coach.
Then they were whisked in air-conditioned comfort along the East Coast Parkway past the glorious profusion of vast banks of bougainvillaeas, over the harbour bridges under the lee of the towering skyscrapers to the World Trade Centre harbour, and were very soon ensconced aboard the Island Pearl, their home for the next ten days.
Looking around her, Maggie decided that it was certainly sumptuous without being in the least bit tacky, and small enough for a definitely family feel. Her grandmother would have enjoyed it, Maggie thought with a pang, but then reminded herself that it was entirely her own fault she was missing it.
She was shown to her cabin, a surprisingly spacious twin down on the Java deck—by a freak of fate, she thought, on the same deck as the medical centre. There and then she vowed to tell no one that she was a doctor, or she’d be hounded by the malingerers if she so much as emerged from her cabin and caught them in search of the ship’s MO.
The cabin, she noted, was blissfully cool. Even this early the air outside was hot, and given time would soar into the eighties or nineties.
She peered through the porthole and saw a flotilla of little fishing vessels and small yachts milling about in the harbour. Fascinated, she propped her chin on her hand and watched for several minutes, until the public address system ‘ting-tonged’ into life.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ a well-modulated female voice began, ‘welcome aboard the Island Pearl. If you would care to make your way to the Malacca deck in half an hour where a buffet breakfast is awaiting you, the captain and crew will be pleased to meet you and give you details of the entertainments and facilities available for your enjoyment during your cruise with us. A map of the ship is posted by each companionway, and another copy is in each cabin by the door. We look forward to your company.’
Ting-tong.
Maggie realised that she was starving. Investigating the doors in her cabin, she found a little shower-room and a wardrobe. Hot, sticky and travel-weary, she had just stripped and was standing under the shower when there was a tap on the door.
‘Your luggage, madam,’ a voice said, and a suitcase appeared in the cabin.
‘Perfect timing,’ she said with satisfaction, and, towelling herself dry, she opened the case and studied the contents.
Not being spoilt for choice, she pulled out a cotton jersey T-shirt dress in pansy-blue that almost exactly matched her eyes, and slipped her feet into cotton sandals.
Tying back her damp hair into a pony-tail with a big fabric band, she brushed on a lick of lipstick and smiled falsely at herself.
Good grief! she thought. I’m nervous. How ridiculous.
With that she opened her cabin door, locked it behind her and made her way up to the Malacca deck.
She was eyeing the buffet and wishing Lucinda was with her after all when a sprightly woman in her sixties smiled at her.
‘Dazzling choice, isn’t it? I’m Rhoda. How do you do?’
Maggie took the proffered hand. ‘Maggie. I’m pleased to meet you.’ And she was, she realised, relaxing almost visibly. ‘Are you alone too?’
‘Yes—which is understandable. But you should have some gorgeous young thing in tow—how about the first officer? He’s spectacularly handsome if you like the Latin type. Bit short, but then you aren’t tall. Or one of the others—I saw the perfect man a little while ago. I do so love men in uniform, don’t you, dear? So romantic, somehow …’
Maggie laughingly restrained her. ‘Please, Rhoda! I’ve been working very hard and I’m here to rest. The last thing I need is a romance.’
‘Rubbish! Everybody needs romance! It’s the most revitalising thing in the world. Now let me see …’
Maggie eyed her new companion warily. ‘You don’t by any chance know my grandmother, do you? Lucinda Wells.’
‘Lucinda Wells—no, I can’t say I do, darling. Why?’
Maggie shrugged ruefully. ‘Oh, nothing. You just reminded me of her.’
Rhoda threw back her head and let out a rippling tinkle of laughter. ‘Oh, dear, excuse me … Is she trying to marry you off, poppet?’
‘You could say that!’
Rhoda patted her hand. ‘Can’t say I blame her. You’re far too pretty to let loose on the streets alone. I’d want you settled, too.’
But despite the constant roving of Rhoda’s eyes during breakfast in the Frangipani Room and the more formal welcome that followed it in the Penang Lounge, the perfect man remained mercifully invisible.
Shortly after the captain finished his welcoming speech, the ship’s engines thrummed gently to life and she pulled slowly out of harbour and began the lazy cruise down the Java Sea to Bali.
Rhoda went to scout out the sunbeds, and Maggie, glad of a little peace, explored the ship until lunch.
The afternoon found her under a sunshade with a book, enjoying the feel of the light breeze over her skin as the little ship cruised steadily down towards the equator. Despite the lazy day she felt ready for bed, a fact enhanced by the change in the time. Of course, it was in reality long past her normal bedtime, but before she could make her escape there was dinner to get through, and she found to her confusion that there was to be no escape. Her company was requested at the captain’s table.