Questions of Trust A Medical Romance - By Sam Archer Page 0,16

be a neurotic mother, especially aware that she was at risk of becoming one after what had happened to her husband, she’d dismissed her son’s symptoms as those of a minor illness.

The ENT surgeon had said something similar to her after the operation. You saved your son’s life, Mrs Edwards. But she hadn’t. In truth, Tom Carlyle was the one who’d saved Jake. He could have refused to see the boy, recommending instead that Chloe continue to dose him with paracetamol and call back if there was no improvement. Or, Dr Carlyle might have misdiagnosed the abscess, labelling it as tonsillitis and prescribing a course of oral antibiotics which wouldn’t have done the trick. Instead, he’d seen Jake’s condition for what it was, and his prompt action had worked.

Tom Carlyle had dropped in earlier that day, after his morning surgery. Chloe was gratified, and perversely not a little jealous, when Jake’s eyes lit up at the sight of the doctor. Dr Carlyle chatted with them both, took a quick glance at the charts at the foot of Jake’s bed, had a word with the ward sister.

As he was making to leave, Chloe half rose from her chair. ‘Dr Carlyle.’

He turned enquiringly.

‘I…’ She faltered, emotion surging within her, the accumulation of sleep deprivation and delayed stress almost pushing her back down into her seat. ‘Just – thank you. For what you did.’

He grinned, eyebrows raised. ‘My job. But it’s a pleasure.’

He gripped her hand, and was gone.

Now, as Chloe relived the memory, she felt the pressure of his hand on hers again, and was surprised at how calloused his palm had felt, not at all how she’d expect a doctor’s hands to feel. Did he perhaps do carpentry or DIY work as a hobby? She knew nothing about him, other than that he had a nice manner, and a nice smile, and had saved her son’s life.

Mentally she shook herself. He was still, when all was said and done, one of them. One of the breed who’d killed her husband. His diagnosis of Jake’s illness hadn’t been in any way miraculous. He had, as he’d acknowledged, been doing his job. Anything less would have been a failing on his part. She couldn’t forget that.

Aware, through the fog of bitterness that had engulfed her once again, that she was being grossly unfair, but unable to care about it, Chloe began to pack up her son’s few items in preparation for his return home.

***

The first Tom was aware of them was when Jake collided with the backs of his legs.

Tom turned, surprised, and saw the little boy clinging to his trousers, his upturned face laughing and impish. Tom reached down and ruffled his hair. Beside him, Kelly rolled her eyes in disdain. She was four and unimpressed by the antics of a two-year-old boy.

Chloe came hurrying over, her eyes and smile flashing an apology. She really did have an attractive smile, Tom thought, though she revealed it less often than she might. He’d seen her around town over the last six weeks, here and there, though she and Jake hadn’t attended the surgery since that day four weeks earlier when he’d presented with the quinsy. Tom had exchanged perhaps ten words with her since then.

He hadn’t seen Chloe and her son in this playground before. It was somewhere he brought Kelly every Sunday before lunch, an activity that had become part of their weekly routine since they’d moved to Pemberham back in the autumn.

Kelly muttered a hello, then raced off towards the climbing frame she loved. Chloe prised Jake off Tom’s legs and hoisted him, but he squirmed so much she had to put him down again. He toddled to a nearby miniature plastic slide and began laboriously to climb it.

Tom stood beside Chloe, watching the two children in their separate locales.

She broke the silence. ‘It’s the first time we’ve been to this playground. I thought we’d try something different.’

‘A bit off the beaten track.’

He saw her smile at the reference to the title of her newspaper column. ‘You’ve read it?’

‘Everybody’s read it.’ And he was only slightly exaggerating. There’d been three columns from her so far, and already her style – a combination of whimsy, self-deprecating wit, and the mildest hint of an appealing loopiness – had won letters of admiration. Tom had always found the Pemberham Gazette rather a dull paper, parochial and bland, but he’d bought the last few editions with Chloe’s column.

She said, ‘I’m surprised the Gazette hasn’t roped