Pregnant Midwife on His Doorstep
Autorzy
Marion Lennox
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15,3K
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16
CHAPTER ONE
HIS NEIGHBOUR MUST be evacuating her dog—but this late?
Dr Josh O’Connor had been watching the forecast for the last twenty-four hours. Cyclone Alma was supposed to stay well north of Camel Island, but the weather was building to extreme. When the radio broadcaster had said, ‘An unpredicted change has the eye of the storm veering south,’ Josh had started to have serious qualms. Should he leave?
But he’d looked through his sturdy double-glazed windows and seen the heaving sea, he’d thought of the rickety bridge across to the mainland and he’d decided it’d be safer to hunker down. His house was new, long, low, solid and set on the lee side of the island. Heavy shutters provided protection. He had plenty of provisions. The storm might cut him off from the mainland for a few days but he’d be fine.
But what about the others? He barely knew the residents of the only two other houses on this remote island, but he knew enough to worry. By mid-afternoon, with the change in weather prediction, he’d tried to contact them.
The house on the far side of the island was occupied by a couple of artists and their kids, and his phone call had made him feel like he was overreacting. ‘We’ll be right, mate,’ Mick Forde had told him. ‘Skye and me have seen storms like this before. It’ll give us something to paint. We’re staying.’ Josh had thought of their ramshackle cottage with misgivings but there was nothing he could do in the face of their intransigence.
The only other house was on his side of the island, owned by the very elderly Moira Byrne. She was a loner. When Josh had first arrived and introduced himself, she’d been curt to the point of rudeness.
‘If you think we’re going to play happy neighbours think again. I bought this place because of its isolation and that’s the way I like it. Keep out of my way and I’ll keep out of yours.’
He had, though her frailty and solitude had him concerned. Once a week she drove her ancient white sedan across the bridge, presumably heading to the town on the mainland for supplies. Occasionally a little red car arrived and someone stayed for a few hours, but whoever it was kept to themselves as well. The driver of the red car seemed to be Miss Byrne’s only personal contact, but Josh was the last person to want to encroach on her solitude.
But this afternoon he’d been uneasy enough to intrude. Her phone had rung out so he’d battled his way over there. He’d heard a dog whining inside but there’d been no other response to repeated knocking. The house and garage were locked, curtained, shuttered.
He’d stood on her doorstep in the rising wind and decided she must have headed to the mainland because of the storm. He wished he could see inside the garage to confirm her car wasn’t there, but he imagined her staying in a mainland motel overnight, where a dog wouldn’t be welcome. She must have locked her dog inside to be safe.
There was a dog flap set in the back door. The dog could come outside if it wanted to, but it obviously wasn’t interested enough in Josh’s knocking or calling to investigate. Fair enough, Josh decided, thinking of his own dog’s fear of storms. He’d check again in the morning but he could do no more. He’d headed home, hunkered down in his office and immersed himself in his work.
Technology’s role in medicine had always fascinated him, and the use of external robotic skeletons in the hope of restoring function to patients with spinal damage had become his passion. After his own accident it had been easy enough to leave hands-on testing to his staff. Retreating to the complexities of techno-science, he led his team from the seclusion of his office. He drove to the city when he was most needed. He attended overseas conferences, but otherwise he worked alone.
The project he was working on was vital and enthralling, but it wasn’t enough to block out the storm. Dudley—the misbegotten mutt he’d been landed with when he’d bought this place—didn’t help. He was cowering under Jock’s office chair in what Josh imagined was the doggy equivalent of the foetal position, and his whimpers were getting louder.
‘It’s okay, boy,’ he told him, but Dudley looked at him as if he was a sandwich short of a picnic and went back to whimpering.
By dusk the phone lines were out and his generator had cut in to augment battery storage from his solar power. This place was designed for self-sufficiency. Josh had power for refrigeration and lights, a slow combustion stove providing central heating and hot water, plus enough driftwood to keep both the stove and the open fire in the living room lit for months. He had a pantry and freezer full of supplies. His very expensive satellite dish was still giving him connectivity to the outside world if he needed it. Dudley might be worried, but he wasn’t.
‘Let’s cook some dinner,’ he told him.
Dudley was still looking at him as if he was nuts. He was under Josh’s chair and he was staying there.
‘Wuss,’ Josh told him, but got down on his hands and knees and started scratching Dudley’s ears. Dudley just whimpered.
Okay, he’d bring out the big guns—Dudley’s favourite thing in the whole world. Josh lay on his back, patted his chest and waited.
His strategy worked. The scrawny kelpie gave a final worried whine, but this was a ruse Josh had used since he’d found the half-starved, flea-ridden mutt when he’d moved here. The anxiety-ridden dog could never resist. Now he inched forward from under the chair, then slithered cautiously up onto Josh’s chest. Josh rubbed Dudley’s spine in the way dogs the world over loved, and hugged him tight.
Which worked both ways. Josh might be self-reliant, he conceded, but the storm was a big one and he wasn’t completely impervious to it. A hug from a dog was okay.
‘We’re both wusses,’ he told Dudley, and Dudley signified his solidarity with a lick from throat to chin.
Bleah.
‘Dinner,’ Josh said, grinning as he wiped away spit. Dudley heaved a resigned sigh that said he ought to worry more about the storm but maybe he’d put dinner first. Josh hugged him again, then headed to the kitchen, with Dudley slinking cautiously after him. He filled Dudley’s bowl with kibble, then decided to check outside. He’d closed the shutters this afternoon, making it impossible to see through the windows, but now he cautiously opened the back door.
Josh’s house, made of stone and hunkered among a couple of rocky outcrops, still seemed solidly safe, but outside seemed just plain scary. The wind was screaming. Debris was blasting against the walls. Josh’s instinct was to close the door fast—but then he paused. There were car lights heading along the track from Moira’s house, down toward the bridge.
Had Moira had second thoughts and come back for her dog? He hadn’t seen her return, but then his windows had been shuttered. She must have come back, collected her dog and decided to retreat again.
Across the bridge? His vague worries about his elderly neighbour suddenly coalesced into fear.
He’d had qualms about the bridge when he’d bought this place, but a call to the local council had reassured him. An unmanned but essential lighthouse on the far side of the island meant the bridge always had to stay connected. Council had budgeted for a rebuild in the next financial year.
But this wasn’t the next financial year, and no one had predicted a cyclone this far south. There’d be waves smashing against the pilings, and Josh had seen the ancient timbers creak and sway in the last storm. Which hadn’t been as bad as this.
Now he was watching the car lights head toward it, and he found he’d forgotten to breathe.
He was overreacting, he told himself. The bridge had withstood weather for decades and it’d take the car less than a minute to cross.
For a moment a car’s headlights illuminated the timbers as the car slowed. Moira had obviously paused to assess the situation.
The decision was made. The headlights inched forward, onto the bridge itself.
And then lurched violently and disappeared.
‘Hell.’
And that was the least of the swear words he uttered as he hauled on his boots and headed through the internal door to the garage. He hit the remote on the doors, the wind blasted in—and seconds later he was out in the teeth of the storm.
At least his truck was sturdy. He’d bought it because it was tough, because he valued the ease of driving along the rough tracks to the island’s isolated beaches. Now he valued its sheer weight.
He thought of Moira’s tiny sedan. No one should be driving in these conditions, and the swerve of those lights... They’d pointed upwards and then disappeared.
He was gunning down the track like a madman. If the bridge had gone... If Moira’s car had crashed into the sea...
There’d be nothing he could do. He knew it even before he reached the bridge. The channel across to the mainland was deep and fast flowing. This side of the island was in the lee of the storm but even so, the waves would be crashing through with force. A tiny car, submerged...
He needed help.
He didn’t have it.
The phone lines and cell-phone connectivity had failed hours ago. With self-sufficiency in mind—and because he relied on video conferencing for his work—Josh had paid the horrendous price for satellite connection, but anyone in that water would be dead long before outside assistance could arrive.
He reached the bridge—or what was left of it. His headlights lit the scene and he saw a storm-washed wreck.
The bridge had crashed, its timbers now a jumbled mass, tilted sideways into the sea, already separating and being washed away.
A car was in that jumble.
It was still on this side, though, in the water but only just. The bridge must have crumbled almost as soon as it was fully on its timbers.
And it wasn’t Moira’s car. Moira’s car was white. This was a tiny, indeterminate red thing. The car he’d seen occasionally visit.
And whoever was in it was in dire trouble. Its bonnet was almost submerged. Timbers were all around it and waves were thumping the wood. The car was slewing sideways...
He was out of his truck before he knew it, plunging down the bank, around the mass of loose planking, leaving his headlights playing the scene.
A massive plank was wedged against the driver’s door. It was being shoved by more timbers. The car was being pushed further in.
He could see a face at the driver’s window. A woman’s face, framed by a mass of copper-red curls. A mask of terror.
He couldn’t get to her.
He stopped for a millisecond, giving himself time to evaluate. Training kicked in. From the moment he’d enrolled in medical school, procedure had been drilled in, over and over. No matter what the emergency, assess the whole situation before acting.
This must be the world record for speed assessment, but it was worthwhile. The waves were hammering the plank against the car so strongly it’d be useless to try to reach the driver’s door and attempt to pull it away. He couldn’t do it. But the plank was angled, and the biggest force of the waves would be at the front of the car, where the water was deepest.
It felt counterintuitive but he backed away, further up the bank from the driver’s door, to the far end of the plank holding the door.
Could he? He had no choice. He got behind the end of the plank, trying to brace himself against the water, against the blasting wind. He pushed with all his might.
The force of the water at the other end was now his friend. He could feel the timber tremble, then shift...
And suddenly move. The plank was suddenly caught by the current, tumbling out to midstream to be tossed away to the sea.
That left the little car without the plank’s protection from the waves, but at least it wasn’t wedging the door closed.
He surged in and grabbed the door handle. The woman inside was obviously pushing. He pulled—no, he hauled. The water was holding it shut, but with their combined strength the door finally opened. He shoved it back against the water’s force, made his body a wedge to stop it slamming shut again and reached in.
The woman was struggling. She was youngish. Soaked. Small but bulky. Terrified.
He grabbed her, hauled her out to him, steadied her.
‘Is there anyone else in the car?’ He was yelling but the wind was tossing his words to oblivion. He put his mouth hard against her ear. ‘Is Moira in there?’
‘No. But her dog’s in there.’ Her yell was fear-filled, loud enough to be heard. ‘On the back seat.’
‘No one else. Sure?’
‘Just the dog.’ She was pushing against him, struggling to reach the back door handle.
His first instinct was to fight her, to simply drag her up the bank and get her safe, but she’d already grabbed the handle. If they were hit by another of the timbers...
But they had this moment. There was a chance...
He had his arm around her, and her bulky midriff helped, making their combined bodies a barrier against the water’s force.
‘Pull,’ he yelled, and she tugged. The door swung wide and the surging water held it open.
But with both doors open, the car was starting to move.
‘She’s on the seat,’ the woman screamed, but Josh’s priorities had suddenly changed. As he’d held her he’d realised her midriff wasn’t the squishy waist of plumpness. It was the firm mound of pregnancy.
She was caught between two doors.
Triage kicked in. He hauled her away from the car, to shore and then up the bank, ignoring fierce, fiery protests. ‘Get yourself safe,’ he yelled. ‘Are you nuts? Your baby... Get into my truck!’
‘The dog...’
‘Now!’ he yelled, and she relented, allowing herself to be shoved to safety. But on the bank, instead of heading to the truck, she turned back to him with anguish.
‘The dog...’ she screamed. ‘Maisie... Please...’
He looked back, torn. The car’s bonnet was starting to swerve downstream. He had milliseconds.
He lunged back into the water, reaching the car again, groping into the back seat, knowing his chances were tiny.
His hands met a great lump of wet fur. Limp. Injured?
The car shuddered and moved.
Somehow he had her, by collar, by scruff. She came free with a rush, and he staggered and almost fell.
Another wave crashed into his legs. He went down to his waist in the water, but held position, held dog.
The car shifted more, slewing sideways. His arms were full of dog. He was struggling to find his feet.
And then the woman was back, staggering into the wash, grabbing his arm. ‘Let me help.’
‘Get back.’
‘No. Move!’
She didn’t release his arm. She was hauling him toward the bank and her extra force helped. Somehow he was on his feet. She was holding him, tugging.
And then they were staggering out of the water, surging upwards, not stopping until they were up the bank, not stopping until they collapsed in a sodden heap against his truck, safe from the wind.
As if on cue, there was a crash of timbers. In the beam of his headlights they watched another plank smash against the car.
The car rolled and tumbled and disappeared in the wash of white water.
And was gone.
For a moment neither of them spoke. Josh was having trouble breathing. Maybe he’d forgotten how. He sat slumped against the truck, his arms full of dog, feeling...gutted.
Unbidden, the thought came back of another accident, three years back. Of sitting just like this, waiting for the ambulance. Of hopelessness. Of despair.
‘Thank you.’
The woman’s voice cut across his thoughts, dragging him out of his nightmare. He thought of her trapped in the car as the water rose. Of her terror. He could feel the blackness...
Get over yourself, he told himself fiercely. This is a happy ending. Nothing like last time.
It was almost still in the lee provided by the truck, though maybe that was just comparative. It was quiet compared to the blast of wind in the open. Just standing was hard. How had they managed to do what they’d done?
‘What the hell were you doing, trying to cross the bridge?’ he snapped. Emotions were coalescing into a wave of anger. He saw her flinch, and hauled back himself.
‘Sorry. We’re safe. Explain later. Where’s Moira?’ She’d come from Moira’s house. He’d expected Moira to be in the car. Why else would she be here but to take Moira to safety? But if Moira had already left... Had Moira sent her to fetch her dog?
‘Moira’s dead.’ Her voice was flat, no inflection, leaving no doubts. Shocking.
‘What the...?’
But if he was shocked, soaked, bruised, how much more so was this woman? The headlights weren’t much use this far around the car but there was enough light for an impression. The woman was...youngish? She had coppery red hair, curls dripping to her shoulders. Not tall. Not plump either, as he’d first thought. She was wearing pants and a loose top, which was now clinging wetly. She looked very pregnant.
He needed to bundle her back to the house and get her warm. There was also the issue of a limp dog. Injured?
But triage... Moira. Dead?
‘Explain,’ he said, curtly. If Moira really was dead there was nothing he could do, but he’d heard enough anguished screaming from relatives during his medical career... ‘He’s dead, Doctor...’ to know the diagnosis wasn’t always right.
But she must have heard his doubt because it was addressed straight away.
‘I’m a nurse,’ the woman managed, and he heard the strong lilt of an Irish accent. ‘I’m a midwife but I know death when I see it. Moira’s my great-aunt. She’s a loner, and she hates me coming, but she has a heart condition so I visit when I can, like it or not. When I heard the forecast I rang to ask her to evacuate. She told me where to go. Then this afternoon she rang me back, in a state. She sounded terrified, gaspy. She wasn’t feeling well and asked if I could come. I suggested an ambulance but she snapped my head off. So I came. She...she was sitting by the kitchen fire, the dog at her feet. Almost peaceful. It took me two hours to get here but by the look of things I suspect she’d been dead for almost that long.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ It seemed appallingly inadequate.
‘I hardly knew her.’ Her voice was almost a whisper. ‘But she was all the family I had.’
He thought suddenly of his dog, of fear and of the need for the contact of another living thing. There was so much bleakness in this woman’s voice.
Triage. Sympathy would have to come later.
He rose and heaved the dog into the back seat. For the life of him he couldn’t see what was wrong with her. She was a golden Labrador, fat, heavy, limp. She raised her head a little as he moved her, her huge brown eyes meeting his. Had she been struck by timbers? It didn’t make sense, but what did make sense was getting them all out of this weather.
With the dog in the back seat he half lifted the woman to her feet and helped her into the passenger seat. Then he headed for the driver’s side, which was no mean feat when that was the weather side.
The wind was still rising. If it got any stronger... He blocked the thought as he headed home. Home, with its remote-control garage doors, with its heat, with its safety.
‘Where are we going?’ the woman managed.
‘To my place. The house you can see from Moira’s.’
‘But it’s empty!’ She said it almost as an accusation. ‘Moira has your phone number on the fridge. I told her to ring you, but she said she couldn’t. When I got here I looked across and there wasn’t a light on. You think I would have tried to cross the bridge if I’d known I could get help there?’ Her teeth were chattering so hard she could hardly get the words out, but indignation came through, loud and strong.
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said and he meant it. ‘I shuttered the place down at lunchtime. I also tried to check on Moira but no one answered my knock. That’s Moira through and through, though. I should have left a light on.’
‘It might have been helpful.’
‘It might.’ He hesitated. ‘You didn’t think to stay at Moira’s until the morning?’
‘She’s dead.’
‘I get that, but—’
‘But I didn’t want to stay with my dead great-aunt.’ Her indignation was still there. ‘It felt like I had to let someone know, and I didn’t know the bridge was going to crash. And the forecast says it’ll get worse before it gets better. And then there’s Maisie...’
‘Maisie?’
‘The dog. She’s in trouble.’ She glanced into the darkness of the back seat and indignation faded. ‘I... Moira says...said...you’re a doctor. Do you know anything about delivering puppies?’
‘Delivering puppies...’
‘Obstructed labour,’ she said briefly, and her voice faltered, shock and stress flooding back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said after a moment. ‘I’m not...at my best. And I’m a midwife but I know nothing about labour in dogs. I could feel contractions half an hour ago, but they were getting weaker and so was she. The phone connection seems to be dead so I couldn’t phone a vet. I couldn’t get onto the internet to find out what I might be able to do and she’s going to die and she’s a lovely dog. And Moira’s dead, which makes me feel sick to my stomach. And I’m freezing and I’m eight months pregnant and I’m scared. I was terrified. Thanks to you, I’m not any more but I’m still scared.’ She took a deep breath, fighting against hysteria, and decided on indignation instead. ‘And you should have put your outside light on.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said again.
‘Thank you.’ She took another breath and he could almost hear her gritting her teeth. ‘If I were a heroine in a romance novel I’d have disintegrated into hysterics by now and left this whole mess to a knight on a white charger. But I needed him two hours ago. Now I’m over it. I don’t know you from Adam but you’ve done all right so far, and I’m grateful. You’re all I have in the knight on a white charger department, so please keep right on rescuing. Maisie’s depending on you. I’m depending on you. You’re all we have.’
And she put her face in her hands, gave one fierce sob and subsided.
