Saving Dr Gregory. Caroline Anderson

       CHAPTER TWO

      THEY met up again at three for the ante-natal clinic, and Polly had an opportunity to see Matt Gregory in action. She found it a real eye-opener.

      Far too young to assume a paternalistic attitude, with his warm, open smile and solid bulk he just became everyone’s favourite brother. He asked searching personal questions with gentle understanding, said nothing trite or patronising, and managed to refrain from avuncular pats or the worse alternative, chilling professional distance.

      He treated the women in his care with respect, interest and a touching tenderness, as if what they were doing was somehow special—which of course it was.

      Polly was impressed. She didn’t think she had ever seen anyone so human before.

      Ms Harding, the liberated elderly primip, was dealt with without any faux pas on Polly’s behalf and with humorous efficiency by Matt, and she was pleased to meet Sarah Goddard, the woman who was going for a home delivery.

      When she showed Mrs Goddard in to Matt after weighing her and checking her BP and urine, he asked Polly to stay. As she watched his strong, sensitive hands moving deftly and with infinite care over Mrs Goddard’s swollen abdomen, Polly felt some strange emotion rise up and clog her throat.

      The baby, resenting Matt’s interference, squirmed and kicked, and Matt and Mrs Goddard both laughed, a warm, intimate laugh that made Polly feel left out. The thing, whatever it was, that had come to life inside Polly when Matt had kissed her turned into full-blown jealousy for a brief instant—so brief that Polly didn’t even have time to recognise it, but she was aware of a tiny flash of pain which she attributed to a frustrated maternal urge.

      Sighing, she turned away and busied herself laying up the instrument trolley with swabs, gloves, KY jelly, speculum, cervical spatulas and the like.

      Polly wanted children. She had no particular image of herself, either as a nurse or as a woman, but she knew that men—not all, certainly, but enough—found her reasonably attractive. With her nut-brown hair curling in unruly tangles around her head, and her warm brown eyes in what she saw as an honest but unremarkable face, Polly was as far removed as she could be from her ideal of the Nordic blonde which she imagined was what turned men on. Her breasts were too full, her hips too rounded, although her waist was neat and her stomach flat and firm. She was too short, too squat, and altogether too homespun for perfection, but she knew she had a warm heart and a loving nature, and her one affair had been filled with affection and humour.

      Martin had emigrated to Australia, and the choice for Polly had been simple—go with him, as his mistress, or stay. He had never asked her to be his wife, and Polly felt he probably never would unless he was pushed—but she didn’t want to push him. Somewhere inside the practical, cheerful and warmhearted woman everybody loved to know was a passionate, romantic girl who wanted to be swept off her feet.

      No matter that it was unrealistic. Polly knew that in the end she would settle for a kind man and set up a loving home based on mutual affection and respect. She didn’t ask for fireworks. She had learned long ago that they were a figment of romantic fiction. All she asked was that some time, before she was too old, she should find a good man to settle down with and raise a brood of chicks. And the young and attractive Mrs Goddard, with her mother-earth good looks and the smooth mound of her burgeoning pregnancy, was a reminder that time was ticking by.

      Squashing the thing she now recognised as jealousy, she helped the woman off the couch and back into her dress, before excusing herself and returning to her room where she set about rearranging her shelves.

      A few minutes later Matt limped in with two cups of tea, and propped himself on the edge of her desk.

      ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, a slight frown creasing his brow.

      Polly nodded. ’Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?’

      ‘Just wondered. You looked a bit strained while you were fiddling with the trolley, rearranging things over and over again. I just wondered if I’d upset you that much this morning.’

      With a sigh, Polly picked up her tea and sank down on to the chair, propping her feet on the desk.

      ‘No. I just felt the pressure of years, that’s all. I was jealous of her—isn’t that silly? I think it’s all these pregnant bumps around the place this afternoon. You’re good with them, aren’t you? I get the feeling you really care about those mums and their babies.’

      ‘I do. They’re very important to me.’

      ‘You were good with Mrs Major this morning, too. She is pregnant, by the way.’

      ‘I thought she was. She had the look.’

      Polly smiled. ‘I’m glad you agree that there’s a look. Most men dismiss it.’

      He gave a curiously bleak smile. ‘Oh, no, I believe in the look. My wife had it when she was pregnant.’

      Polly felt a strange little lurch of pain. Of course he was married—he had ‘HUSBAND MATERIAL’ written all over him in letters ten inches high. She should have guessed.

      Misinterpreting her sigh, Matt smiled. ‘There’s plenty of time for you, Polly. How old are you?’

      ‘Twenty-six.’

      ‘Are you? You don’t look it.’

      Her smile was wry. ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’

      ‘Just a comment, neither one way or the other. Thinking about it, you must be that old to have enough experience to do this job. But going back to pregnant bumps, you’ve got years before you need to worry.’

      Polly dropped her feet to the floor. ‘I wasn’t worried, Matt. I just had a surge of maternal feeling—it caught me by surprise, that’s all.’

      ‘I know the feeling,’ he said quietly. ‘Every time I do an ante-natal clinic, I long to have a child of my own. One day, maybe—but I doubt it.’

      ‘But I thought you said—what happened?’

      ‘She had a water-skiing accident. The baby died.’

      ‘Oh, Matt!’ Polly’s warm heart ached for him, and she covered his hand with hers. ‘I’m sorry. But there’ll be other chances——’

      ‘No.’

      His bitterness showed briefly in his eyes before he straightened and moved away from Polly.

      ‘Evening surgery,’ he said abruptly, and left, limping awkwardly down the corridor towards his room. His tea on her desk was still untouched, and Polly went via the kitchen and took him in a fresh one before his first patient.

      He flashed her a distracted smile and busied himself on the computer. He had evidently said much more than he had intended, and now he regretted it. Her dismissal was obvious—and painful.

      He found her in the morning, after surgery, when she was clearing up her room and remaking the couch with a clean sheet.

      ‘Morning,’ she said, sparing him a quick smile as she bustled round.

      ‘Have you got a minute? There’s a patient I’d like to discuss with you, Polly.’

      ‘Sure.’ She stopped bustling, and pulled up a chair. Go ahead.’

      ‘Her name’s Helen Robinson, and I’ve suggested she comes to see you at the well-person clinic. She’s got nothing wrong