Chapter 24
Beth took one look at Rick and knew something was wrong. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m fine,’ he replied. ‘Just dizzy.’
‘Sit.’ Beth jerked her head towards the oak bench outside the dairy. She tried not to stare at Rick’s unsteady progress. It was this unpredictable condition of his that didn’t add up. He seemed so healthy and solid one minute, yet the next he looked shaky and defeated. Almost as if he was two different people.
Perhaps he has an identical twin.
As soon as the thought scuttled across her mind, she dismissed it. Identical twins wouldn’t have matching scars making them look like dishevelled, if sexy, pirates. She brushed an accumulation of cobwebs from the silvered wood and sat down. The whole seat heaved as Rick lowered himself onto the other end. She examined him surreptitiously. He might be heavy, but he was trim for a man his age. A solid wall of muscle. Dragging her eyes away, she cleared her throat. ‘You fixed the polytunnel for me. Thank you.’
Rick’s smile was faint, as if he’d had to dredge it out of his boots with immense physical effort. ‘You’re welcome. I enjoyed having something practical to do.’
‘You say you’re fine, but you don’t seem very well.’
‘I’m just really tired. And, for the record, I’m not drunk.’
‘Why would I think you were drunk?’
‘You accused me of being drunk before.’
‘I’d forgotten about that.’
‘I was tired then, too.’
Beth leaned a fraction closer. ‘Is the tired and dizzy thing connected with your… um… head injury?’
‘Eh?’
She gestured to her eye and nose.
‘You mean this?’ He pointed to his scar. ‘No. That was ages ago. A legacy from the last rugby match I ever played. An illegal tackle put me in a coma for a month, just after my twenty-second birthday.’
‘It looks nasty.’ She cursed her tactlessness. ‘I mean the injury looks like a nasty one… not that the scar is nasty… because it isn’t… I… uh.’
‘It was nasty. I only survived because I was playing for the university medics’ team. If you’re ever planning to have a major head injury, I recommend surrounding yourself with twenty-nine other doctors first, preferably before the after-match drinking starts.’ He snorted in disgust. ‘There was only so much the trauma surgeon could do. I wasn’t stable enough to have a cosmetic procedure done for a long time afterwards. And by then, I couldn’t face it.’
Beth patted his arm. An unexpected tingling sensation in her hand made her pull back. She clasped both hands together around her knee to stop herself from giving into the impulse to touch him again.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not ill. Not really. I mean, I’m on sick leave from work, but it’s nothing.’ He flushed. ‘I’ve got burnout. It explains the exhaustion, anyway.’
‘Does it?’
‘I’ve been under investigation at work because of a treatment decision I made. It turns out that it was the right decision, but my career could be over anyway because of an administrative technicality.’
‘I bet being investigated was tough.’
Rick gave a bitter laugh. ‘Most people are innocent until proven guilty. But it doesn’t seem to work that way for medical staff. God! Listen to me being all self-pitying. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine. You’re allowed your feelings.’
‘No, I’m not. Not when poor De… I mean, not when my patient is going through what he’s going through. Anyway, I’m off work. Properly off, I mean, for the first time since I trained thirty years ago.’
‘How’s that going?’
‘Honestly? I feel lost. I don’t know what to do with myself. I feel like I’m walking through treacle all the time. Everything takes so much energy. I don’t even know who I am without my career. And I feel guilty because…’
‘Because what?’
He ducked his head, his voice low. ‘The longer I’m off, the more I’m not sure that I want to go back.’
‘Really? Why?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m scared. It’s daft. I’m not being struck off, which is good.’
‘Struck off?’
‘All GPs are on what we call the performers list. You can get struck off if you are found guilty of malpractice. And if you are struck off, you can’t practise medicine.’
‘Oh.’
‘So, I haven’t been struck off. And I’m glad about that. I really am.’
‘But?’
‘Now that I’ve stopped and I’ve had time to think about what happened, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to treat anyone again. I just don’t trust myself.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ murmured Beth. She knew only too well what not trusting yourself felt like. The mountain of pain in his eyes made her want to throw her arms around him and tell him everything would be alright. Only, she didn’t know if it would be.
‘What if I get it wrong? The thought of doing a clinic makes me feel physically sick, then I start to shake and my brain turns to mush. It’s life or death all day, every day. The smallest mistake can have catastrophic consequences.’
‘Rick, you’re ill. I’m not a doctor, but even I know burnout is serious. What has your own doctor said?’
‘I haven’t seen one. There’s no need. I know the treatment.’
‘You can’t treat yourself. You didn’t operate on yourself when you got your head injury, did you?’
‘That’s different. I’m not a surgeon.’
‘Don’t be obtuse.’
‘I’m not.’
‘What about your colleagues? Can they help you?’
‘They’ve told me to keep my head down and rest up.’
‘That’s crazy. There must be more help available.’
A sudden rustle and then a loud cackle made Beth turn. Percy and the hens emerged from under the hedge and started scratching and pecking at the ground. ‘You naughty creatures. You’re not supposed to come though here.’ Beth shooed the birds back through the hole. ‘Goodness. Look at this.’ She bent down to pick something off the ground and straightened up, a cigarette butt in her hand.
He opened his fist, revealing more than a dozen roaches. ‘I was just clearing up.’
Disappointment crashed through her along with a mental collage of excruciating memories. Even her overactive hormones stopped promoting Rick’s suitability and recoiled in alarm. ‘Getting pie-eyed on weed isn’t going to solve your problems, Rick.’
‘What? No. They’re not mine.’
That’s what Trent used to say. ‘This stuff is really bad for you, Rick. You must know that.’ Scanning the ground, she saw yet more. ‘Look at them all. How much are you smoking?’
‘It’s not me. There were a couple of teenagers up here. I just chased them off.’ He sighed. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ The sadness on his face stabbed at her gut. He got to his feet and started limping back towards the barn.
Beth hurried after him. ‘I want to believe you, but I’ve been down this road before. I spent nearly a decade with someone addicted to drugs. Not to start with; he was clean when we first met, and charming and talented. Then he discovered weed and it changed him. I tried everything to help him, but it’s a short but very slippery slide down to hard drugs. Trust me, Rick, wacky backy is not the answer to life’s problems.’
He reached the porch and turned to look at her. ‘I know that.’
He looked so earnest, but she couldn’t allow herself to believe him. ‘And quite apart from the health risks, just smoking by all those hay bales is stupid. Close to your outbuildings, not to mention my sheds and the stable block just over the hedge. It’s all really flammable. Did you know that smoking causes more forest fires than anything else?’
‘Beth. I promise you that I have never done drugs. Ever. And I certainly don’t smoke. I get that you have history with this and I do want to talk some more, but right now I really need to lie down. Can we pick this up tomorrow and talk properly?’
She searched his face, wanting to believe him. ‘Fine, you go and rest, but if we’re going to talk about this tomorrow, we’re also going to talk about you seeing a counsellor.’
He didn’t reply.
She watched him stumble inside and close the door, and growled in frustration.
Why are things always so complicated?
Supressing the urge to drag him down to the village to see the GP – by the scruff of the neck, if need be – she headed back to the farmhouse. Only seconds later, she registered a sharp tang in the air that stripped the back of her throat.
Smoke.
A lot of smoke.
From somewhere nearby.
Thick and acrid. Scratching at her lungs. A dense, black plume billowed up from behind the stable block and the old dairy building.
Shit. The back garden.
There was only one thing it could be.
The shed.
Beth’s feet started running before her brain was in gear. An anguished moan escaped. Tearing between the stable block and the farmhouse, she grabbed a bucket from a hook by the back door, yelling, ‘Fire! Fire! Help! Where’s Grace? Rose, Daisy, Jack, are you okay? Help!’
Thankfully, the water trough at the back of the stables was still full after the llampacas’ recent visit. She filled her bucket to the brim and staggered towards the ancient black shed. The whole structure was engulfed in crackling, spitting, dancing flames.
The heat was too intense. Unable to get close, she had to fling the water from a few metres away. It arced onto the burning timber and hissed, but made little impact on the flames. Daisy appeared in her peripheral vision, battling to unravel a hose from outside the conservatory doors.
‘Is Grace with you?’ Yelling over the crackle of flames made Beth cough. Hot particles clawed at the back of her throat.
Daisy, her face grey with shock, shook her head.
Beth’s eyes stung. ‘Get that hose on. I’ll fill more buckets. Don’t get too close.’
Hurrying back to the trough, she called for help again, her voice little more than a croak. She returned to the burning shed with another bucket of water.
Rose arrived, tears streaming down her face. ‘I rang the fire brigade,’ she yelled. ‘Jack’s hooking up Charlie’s hose to the standpipe in the field. Says he’ll spray the shed from the other side. Keep it from spreading.’
‘Good idea.’ Beth coughed. ‘Is Grace safe in the house?’
Rose’s eyes widened. She shook her head. ‘She was collecting eggs last time I looked.’ She looked at the shed. ‘Oh my God… what if…’
Beth froze. Her eyes darted to the red-hot flames. She dropped her buckets and ran towards the burning shed.
Somewhere, someone screamed. ‘Not my baby! Not my baby. No. No. No!’
Before she’d taken more than half a dozen steps, Beth was knocked to the ground as something big and heavy landed on top her. She hit out at the weight holding her down and sobbed helplessly. ‘Let me up! Please! Please! My baby’s in there. My baby.’