The Watchful Eye (7 page)

Anna-Louise, Guy Malkin, Arnie Struel. These were the
real
inhabitants of Eccleston. Maud Allen’s day was well over. The last of her generation, she would leave behind a legacy of a world which had been vaporised.

And so, only slightly disgruntled, he went to bed.

He was woken on Sunday morning by the peal of the church bells from the Holy Trinity. As there was no movement from Holly’s room he made his coffee and returned to bed, mug of coffee and Sunday paper in hand, to listen to them. He even opened his bedroom window to hear them more clearly. Wherever you go in the world you will hear specific sounds which relate to the religion of the populace. As the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer in Muslim areas throughout the world, the Buddhist is summoned by handbells, so you hear the call for Christians in a peal of church bells. Inevitably it reminded him of poetry –

He drank his coffee, scanned the paper and reflected how seduced he had been by village England, how hard he had fought to become the country GP, how very much he had wanted to be the family man, old tweeds, digging the garden. And instead here he was, snarled up in modernism, divorced, an absentee father, plucking up courage to trawl the Internet for someone who would share his dream.

Suddenly he felt like hurling the cup across the room.

Holly overslept in the morning and he fidgeted around downstairs, waiting for her to appear. Every time he put his head round the door she was still fast asleep, breathing noisily. At ten he finally heard her stir and she appeared,
tangled-haired
, rubbing her eyes, in her pink pyjamas. ‘Is it very late, Daddy?’

He was reminded of the White Rabbit. Late. Late. Always late. From the time when he awoke on a Sunday he was aware that the day was foreshortened. Elaine would arrive between four and five and reclaim her daughter, so he resented the lie-in robbing him of precious time with Holly.

He cooked breakfast, aware of precious moments ebbing away like the tide. It was a tradition that he fed her up and she loved scrambled eggs. While he was waiting for the eggs to cook she washed her wellies until they were clean enough to wear round the house and later in her mother’s car. At twelve he drove her to one of the nearby farms to see the newborn lambs and he watched her indulgently while she stroked the animals, running from pen to pen, cooing over the calves.

They spent an hour or two there and then they went to the local pub for their Sunday carvery. Everyone there seemed jolly, happy, apart from a couple of old farmers ensconced in
the corner, moaning about the dry weather, the cold spring and the late government subsidies. He shot them a sympathising look and received a grudging smirk and a, ‘Hello, Doctor’ in return.

Holly was invariably quiet when they returned home and he knew she, like him, was clock-watching, seeing the minutes tick away. She had her Barbie case packed and was sitting down, ready. Elaine couldn’t bear it if she had to wait – even for a minute. She had always been an impatient woman and some strain showed on his daughter’s face as, at half past four, they heard the 4x4 roar up the High Street, Elaine’s impatience reflected in the angry sound of the engine.

Holly stood up, hugged him fiercely while he breathed in the scent of her No More Tears Johnson’s shampoo.

‘Bye, pigeon,’ he said. ‘See you soon.’

Elaine didn’t need to knock on the door. Since she had left she had never once set foot back inside The Yellow House. It was as though she rejected everything about him. These days they barely talked except to argue about Holly.

He waved them off, thinking how very small his daughter looked in the huge passenger seat of the Honda.

Then he closed the door.

The house was a morgue now she had gone. He wandered up to her room, noticing everything with heightened awareness: the tidy way she had made her bed, the toys neatly arrayed on the pillows. The room had an unreal look; it was like a pretend room, a children’s bedroom set out in a department store. He felt sad and sat down in the sitting room, thinking. This was a parody of family life as he had imagined it. His
wife, the girl’s mother, was missing. Just for a moment he allowed himself the luxury of a daydream. He’d wanted a son, a brother for Holly, had even penned the imaginary notice in the newspaper.
A brother for Holly.

He felt consumed with a sudden, hot fury. Bloody Elaine, he thought.

Monday morning draws the crowds into a doctor’s surgery. Everyone who’s suffered and braved it out over the weekend attends, plus a few who simply want to extend the break into the weekdays – the Sick Note Brigade with their vague tales of backache, headache, viruses or anything else the doctor can neither prove nor disprove. The waiting room was heaving as Daniel waded through, hardly registering a single face.

Except one.

The child was ill. He could see that in a minute. Floppy, hardly responding, eyes unfocused and dull. Dehydrated. He felt a prickle of alarm. What had he missed from the previous consultation?

‘Take her into the examination room.’

Vanda Struel cradled Anna-Louise in her arms and struggled to move as quickly as he.

The moment they were in the examination room he started firing questions at her. ‘How long has she been like this?’

‘Since yesterday morning, Doctor. When I woke up and went in her room she was like this, takin’ no notice of anything.’

He was already feeling the child’s pulse. Thready. Her eyes were sunken, her skin wrinkled like an old woman’s.

‘Has she been sick, vomiting?’

‘Not that I’ve seen.’

‘Has she been drinking all right?’

‘She had her bottle when she went to bed.’

‘Diarrhoea?’

‘Not as I’ve seen.’ There was a quick defensiveness in Vanda’s manner.

‘I’m just going to prick her finger to see what her blood sugar is.’

5.6. Normal. As usual none of it made any sense.

‘She’ll have to go into hospital, Vanda,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the girls to ring for an ambulance.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said quickly. ‘My mum’s outside. She can drop us off on her way to work. We’ll be there quicker than hanging around for an ambulance.’

‘I didn’t see your mum in the waiting room.’

‘She waited outside – in the car park. We was blockin’ a car in so she didn’t dare come in. I’ll go and get her if you like.’ All was eagerness.

‘No, no. That’s all right. Get Anna-Louise dressed while I write a letter and ring the duty paediatrician.’ He hesitated. ‘Perhaps you’d better go and warn your mother that Anna-Louise needs to go into hospital.’

He was surprised that Bobby hadn’t realised just how sick the child was, that she had allowed her granddaughter to deteriorate and done nothing for twenty-four hours. The next moment it was himself he was chiding. Bobby Millin was a health care assistant, not a trained nurse. It wasn’t
her
job to
gauge the severity of an illness. She was untrained in such things. Besides, she worked with geriatrics, not paediatrics. She wouldn’t realise how quickly a two-year-old can dehydrate when something is wrong.

But what?

Again he asked himself the question.

What had he missed? The eternal question of a doctor. Nature has fooled me.

How?

None of his formulaic questions had given him any answer as to why Anna-Louise was so sick. The flow chart had failed him.

He picked up the phone and was quickly connected with the paediatrician.

Claudine always went shopping on a Monday afternoon; for things she had run out of over the weekend, he presumed. He watched her leave the house, carrying the big wicker basket. How very French, he thought. Not like an Englishwoman who would have driven to one of the supermarkets, either the Co-op here, or into Stafford or Newport to one of the bigger chains, Asda or Sainsbury’s or Waitrose, and bundled her purchases into a plastic carrier bag. Oh no, tidily dressed in navy trousers and a white blouse, Claudine walked, the basket over her arm, a list in her hand, as though she was in a French village, visiting the local shops: the butcher’s, the greengrocer’s and the baker’s. It wouldn’t have surprised him if she had returned with one of those long French loaves sticking out of the basket. But apparently she had been converted to English bread. Brian’s taste? Guy had seen a large, brown loaf at the top of her basket one day when she had passed him in
the street. Occasionally when he had been working at the Co-op she had wandered in and he had served her, hoping she noticed how deft he was at clocking the purchases over the bar-coder.

She had walked straight past him, exchanged pleasantries over the counter. But he had caught the flash of friendliness in her beautiful brown eyes. This unknown, secret intimacy thrilled him.

‘I’m sending a little girl in. Anna-Louise Struel. She’s two years old.’

Concisely Daniel related the story of the breath-holding attacks, the frequent attendances at surgery, working his way round to the current problem – clinical dehydration with no history of any obvious cause.

The on-duty paediatric SHO sounded tired – already – and Daniel remembered back to bygone Monday mornings, paediatric emergencies and shifts that seemed to go on forever until there was no outside world – only that which existed inside the hospital – sick children, anxious relatives. Pathology – endless pathology. Outside there was no healthy, happy place. Only this inward turmoil of anxiety, unhappiness and worry. To which he added his concern, because he would always doubt that he had unearthed the full story and picked up on every physical sign, and theirs, because they were frightened that their beloved son or daughter would die.

He remembered tiredness and worry, decisions, and the pressing tendency of mothers who were convinced their little darlings had meningitis even when it was patently obvious that the children were perfectly well.

‘And now she’s clinically dehydrated and very floppy?’

The SHO asked all the same questions that Daniel had already asked himself and which drew all the same answers.

‘She’s not diabetic?’

He sounded South African.

‘Nope. I’ve done a blood sugar. It’s normal.’

Which in itself was odd.

‘The mother and grandmother are bringing her up now. They should be there (with my hastily scribbled letter) in about fifteen minutes.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ll be interested in your findings. She’s a frequent attender at surgery. In fact she’s waiting for an appointment to see Doctor Lewis.’

The South African gave a short, cynical laugh. ‘Aren’t they all?’

‘I’ll ring later and see what you think.’

Daniel put the phone down. One of the frustrations of being a GP sending a patient into hospital was that he knew the beginning of the story only – the first chapter of the mystery. It could take weeks to hear the ending. Sometimes not even then. Letters back from the hospital were notoriously slow. And now they were out-sourcing the medical secretaries’ work to Bangladesh they would probably get lost somewhere between the Indian subcontinent and Staffordshire. Daniel sighed. In his years of working for the National Health Service he had learnt that government intervention invariably made things worse.

He swaggered up the path, towards the house.

It was the husband’s fault, of course.

He had sensed some unrecognised aggression in PC Brian Anderton that must frighten his gentle wife. It was unmistakable, this fury that he couldn’t disguise and one day
he suspected that the policeman would no longer be able to hold it back.

This he recognised without understanding what had planted the seed in the man’s mind. He flirted with it without realising the depths to which the policeman’s mind could plummet. Dangerously he thought it was simple jealousy.

He walked round to the front of the house. It was a modest semi-detached, one of a line of six. The Eccleston policemen had always lived in these houses.

The flower pot with its spring bulbs almost danced into his vision in its eagerness to be noticed. It was as good as telling him something was underneath it. He looked underneath and found the key with a skip of triumph. For a policeman, he decided, Brian Anderton was surprisingly careless. Fancy leaving a key in such an obvious place.

And now he had the key in his hand how very easy it was to borrow it for an hour, drive to Newport, to the key-cutting shop. Then he could slip it back.

They would never know what he had and he would be able to enter their house any time he liked. Day or night, morning, afternoon or evening. Any time they were not there.

He had the key to their house.

As he watched the key grinder’s machine cut out the grooves and peaks, he felt a sudden skip of pleasure. Tomorrow when she left the house to do her shopping or to fetch the little girl from school,
he
would be able to enter it. He clucked a censorious noise. It would serve the policeman right for being so careless if he had an intruder. No burglar alarm! In his mind he was already wandering through the house, picking up bottles of scent from her dressing table, touching
the towels in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet seat, touching her sheets, the pillow she laid her head on, rifling through her wardrobe. He handed over the £3.50 and left the shop, fingering the keys in his pocket and smiling. In his life he had never ever felt quite so happy or in control.
He
controlled
them
now.

Daniel wandered into the reception area at eleven o’clock. The receptionist always made a tray of coffee usually accompanied by chocolate biscuits – gifts from grateful patients or bought out of petty cash. It was a good opportunity to chat to his partners.

Lucy Satchel was already in there, munching a huge piece of chocolate cake. ‘Marie’s birthday,’ she explained. ‘It’s all right, I’ve added your name to the card.’

Daniel helped himself to a piece. ‘I’ve had to send the little Struel girl in,’ he said.

Lucy frowned. ‘Anna-Louise?’

Lucy was the archetypal English rose, slim, blonde, late thirties, with a dewy complexion. Daniel had never seen her wear any make-up – not even at the annual Christmas piss up. Neither had he ever smelt perfume on her, which struck him as quite strange. She was married to an engineer who seemed to spend half his life working in the hot spots of the world and the other half loafing around at home. She had two children of school age and a live-in nanny, and lived in a huge, brand new house with umpteen bedrooms and bathrooms in Swynnerton, a small village a mile or two to the west of Eccleston.

‘What was it this time?’

‘She was dehydrated.’

‘What,’ Lucy scoffed. ‘Mum said she hadn’t taken her morning drink or passed urine for twenty-four hours?’

‘No, clinically.’

‘Just a bit of D and V.’

‘Vanda said not.’

‘She’s always got some sorry story that doesn’t quite hang together,’ Lucy said, still unimpressed. ‘There’s something quite strange about Vanda. She’s a real misfit. Lucky, really, that she’s got her mum so near. Her brother’s a psychopath.’ She made a face. ‘The fact is, Danny, I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about that little lady. She needs some family therapy.’

The door opened and swung shut. ‘Who needs family therapy?’

Sammy Schultz was a complete contrast to Lucy. No one could possibly mistake him for English. Short, Jewish, hairy as a gorilla, originally from New York, married to a local girl who had seduced him with the pretty English town of Eccleston. He had taken a trip over just before they had married and fallen in love with the English village, with its church, Georgian High Street and pubs. In fact he had taken so well to English village life, immersing himself in its cultures and traditions, that he was the real driving force behind Eccleston In Bloom and was to be seen, many a morning, watering the baskets full of geraniums, petunias and busy Lizzies that brightened the High Street through the entire summer. He was also proud to be the one and only American member of The Ecclestonians’ Society.

Lucy answered Schultz’s question. ‘Anna-Louise Struel. Would you believe it, Danny’s had to send her in this morning.’

Schultz raised his thick eyebrows, mirroring his partner’s look of scepticism. ‘Oh, something
really
wrong this time or another false alarm?’

Daniel answered defensively. ‘She was ill. Clinically dehydrated. Floppy.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘She really wasn’t well.’

‘She’s kind of typical of these kids,’ Sammy said, his mouth now also full of chocolate cake. ‘Mum panics too much, brings the little kiddie down to see the doctor almost every week. And then – all of a sudden – the kids grow up. A miracle or what?’

Daniel started to tell them about the breath-holding attacks and both Lucy and Sammy nodded sagely. They’d seen it all before. Nothing about this case worried them. So they moved on to discuss other patients. Lucy asked about Holly and he heard about her children’s impending SATS and her daughter’s pony riding lessons.

Marie Westbrook wandered in, then beamed at Daniel. ‘Thanks for the card,’ she said.

He returned with a ‘Happy Birthday.’ Surely the card hadn’t
only
been from him?

Marie was a tall, pale, slim woman, in her early thirties. He knew little about her but she was a good nurse, patient and understanding, popular with the patients. One thing had struck him about her, apart from her friendliness: she was never in a hurry to go home. If he thought about it, he assumed that she either lived alone or that her home life was not particularly happy. He didn’t know which.

Ten minutes later the four of them were back in their surgeries seeing the last of their morning’s patients.

There were only two visits. Daniel offered to do one and
met the nurse as she was leaving. ‘Happy birthday again,’ he said gaily. ‘The cake was simply…’

‘Blame my mother for that. She thinks I still need a birthday cake. At my age.’ Oddly enough she flushed.

‘So are you celebrating tonight?’

‘I don’t think so, Dan.’ Her face was shuttered. Another of life’s little mysteries, Daniel reflected, as he climbed into his car. He started to realise just how little he did know about the nurse. He didn’t know whether she was married or had children. Certainly he had never seen any photographs of them. Her desk was neat, uncluttered and sported no family photographs. He didn’t think she wore a wedding ring but he couldn’t really remember. She was a closed book.