St Matthew's Passion - By Sam Archer Page 0,21

with enough skill that scarring would be minimal, both for cosmetic reasons and so that there was no distortion inside the mouth which might affect Mr Harrow’s eating or speech in the future.

Fin considered the options. St Matthew’s had a plastic surgery department, with surgeons specialising in cosmetic repairs. But Fin himself was skilled in such repairs, and for all but the most severe cases the plastics boys were happy for him to do the job. It lightened their work load, for one thing.

Then he had an idea. It was very early in the morning, and the first casualties of the rush hour traffic chaos hadn’t started to pour in yet. The department was quiet. Fin called across to one of the nurses: ‘Rachel, could you ask Ms Havers to pop in for a moment?’

‘Miz who?’ growled Harrow, and winced at the pain that talking evidently produced.

‘A colleague of mine,’ said Fin.

Melissa appeared between the curtains, and Fin caught his breath. First thing in the morning, in the standard-issue white coat, her hair pulled back into a practical ponytail as she always wore it at work, she was still a vision of loveliness.

‘This is Mr Harrow,’ said Fin. ‘Take a look at this. Fishing hook injury.’

Melissa peered at the wound, betraying no reaction. ‘Plastics?’

‘I thought you might do it.’

Her eyes flashed at him – astonished, and excited – but she kept her tone nonchalant. ‘Of course.’

‘I’ll assist, if you don’t mind.’

The fishermen were muttering to each other. At least, Fin thought, it meant they weren’t staring at Melissa any longer.

Harrow said, ‘No offence, Doc, but you’re the boss, aren’t you? I’d prefer it if you did it.’

Fin could understand. Everyone wanted to be treated by the most senior, most experienced doctor available. It was natural. On the other hand, if the trainees never learned by experience, they’d never themselves become experts. It was one of the trade-offs for coming to a teaching hospital for treatment.

‘Ms Havers is one of our top surgeons,’ said Fin. ‘She’ll do a fine job.’

‘It’s just that she’s – well, you know.’ Harrow gestured vaguely.

One of his friends said, ‘Hey, George. You’re better off with a lady. She’ll be good at stitching and sewing.’ They erupted into sniggers.

Melissa didn’t falter, didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. She looked neither flustered nor annoyed, even though Fin thought she must have been seething inside at the chauvinism of the men. Fin thought she was handling it terrifically.

George Harrow seemed to realise things had gone too far because he shook his head at his friend, grimacing again. A nurse took them through to the suturing area and began to prepare a sterile field.

Melissa looked up at Fin and said, ‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t let me down.’

He wasn’t worried, and his confidence in her turned out to be well-placed. Fin said nothing during the entire procedure, handing her swabs and wielding the small selection of retractors according to her instructions. He marvelled at the delicacy of her suturing technique, the flair with which she stitched the elaborately tricky tear within the man’s mouth and, later, the laceration as it extended across his outer cheek, ensuring the edges of the wound were as closely opposed as possible to minimise the scarring. There had been no damage to the facial nerve so with any luck, and assuming they could head off any infection, Harrow’s face should look almost as good as new within a few weeks.

Although Fin watched Melissa’s hands intently, aware of his responsibility to the patient, he glanced from time to time as surreptitiously as he could at her face. Often all he could see was the smooth curve of her forehead leading to the delicate arches of her pale eyebrows and, beyond, her long, thick lashes. It was all he could do to keep himself from reaching out and tracing a forefinger across her brow, down the bridge of her small nose to her lips.

When at last she’d snipped the final suture and dabbed the wound dry, watching for tiny bleeding vessels, Melissa sat arrow up and brought him a mirror. He turned his head this way and that, peering at the thin pink line which looked like nothing more than a nasty paper cut.

‘Thanks, Doc,’ he nodded at her.

Outside the suture room, a dressing freshly applied, Harrow met his friends.

‘You look like a princess, my darling,’ one of them said.

‘Sling your hook,’ Harrow retorted, and they departed in gales of laughter.

Fin watched Melissa help the nurse tidy up. ‘Another satisfied customer,’ he said.

She