By the time I’d entered ICU, my toes were burning and it was only a sense of decorum which meant I kept those wretched shoes on. I more or less staggered into Jemima’s cubicle carrying my cargo of gifts.

Jemima was asleep, which didn’t surprise me. Her mother was sitting quietly reading when I clip clopped my way in. She looked up and smiled at me, “Lady Catherine, how nice of you to come.”

“Cathy, please. I said I’d come so here I am.”

“Gosh, you make me feel a total mess,” she blushed back at me. She was wearing a jeans and a tee shirt.

“I suspect you have more important things on your mind than your wardrobe. I had to go somewhere first,” I lied but I hoped it made her feel better. Tomorrow, I’d be in jeans and more importantly, trainers. My toes were on fire. “Have you had some lunch?”

“No, not yet, can’t say I’m that hungry.”

“Go and get something to eat and drink and have a break for half an hour. I’ll stay here in case she wakes up. They’ll send for you if you’re needed.”

“I suppose I could use a drink and stretch my legs. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Of course not, now go on and don’t rush, I’ll be here.” I practically pushed her out the door. As soon as she was gone, I kicked my shoes off and massaged my toes–the relief was enormous. I reckon I had caught them just before I’d rubbed blisters. I lifted up my dress and sat with my feet under me, snug in the easy chair alongside the sleeping child.

I watched her for a while, her eyes were moving under her closed lids indicating she was dreaming. I hoped it was a pleasant dream. She was clasping my dismal dormouse in both hands, and there was blood or some other goo on the pillow, presumably from her head wound.

She still looked so small and vulnerable. I’d heard nothing about the accident other than from direct word of mouth. I didn’t know if the driver had been prosecuted or even, if it was his fault–maybe she ran out in front of him? I suppose it was more important that she recovered than he was prosecuted, although they weren’t mutually exclusive.

She was a pretty little thing, despite the dressing, the tube up her nose and the facial bruising, which was a darker colour now and covered part of her right eye and cheek, along with a graze on her nose and chin. Her right hand had a small bandage too, so that must have been injured too.

How could I have missed so many of her injuries when I pulled her out from under the car, or was it a van? I can’t remember, just as well I’m not a witness, I’d be a very unreliable one.

Jemima sighed in her sleep, “Caffy,” and I nearly fell of the chair. Nah, she was probably wanting a drink, espresso or latte, that was it, she wanted a drink, a fix of caffeine.

As I watched, she snuggled against the mutant mouse and sighed again, “Caffy,” did she still want a drink or was my compliment aversion system, working overtime?

I tried to look at my newspaper, bought the same time as the felt toy, but I just couldn’t cope with Jonathan Freedland or George Monbiot in my distracted state. I was seemingly happy watching a small child, who was still very poorly, sleep.

I felt this hollowness inside me, as if a part of my body had been ripped out, the part which should have been involved with children, leaving an ache, which could only be healed by having my own children: this, not being possible, meant I should never heal.

It was a price I had to pay, and until now, in a sort of abstract sense, it hadn’t worried me too much. I knew I couldn’t father children, I had no inclination whatsoever, and I knew as well that, no matter how female I felt, my chromosomes were XY, even if my phenotype was barely masculine. Now, sitting here and watching the miracle–that was a child–before me, I felt quite broody; no matter how futile such a feeling was. I wanted a child or better still, children.

My mind flitted back to the ‘visitation’ from my mother, suggesting I’d have children. The more I thought about it, the more I suspected it was unconscious wishful thinking, a delusion to keep me sane–if that doesn’t sound too obtuse? My career, my dormice, even my students–spotty and smelly they may be–were my babies, and I wondered if that was all I was destined to have, however acquired they might be.

I was so rapt in my thoughts, I didn’t notice a little pair of peepers opening and a gasp accompanying them. “Caffy,” said a tiny voice, sounding a little hoarse.

“Hello, young un, your mummy’s gone for a quick cuppa, she’ll be back in a minute.”

“I wuv my mousie,” she grinned at me.

“What are you calling her, something nice I hope?”

“Mousie,” she grinned back.

“Simplicity is a virue,” I said under my breath, “Well that’s a very suitable name isn’t it?”

“What does supable mean, Wady Caffy?”

“No, sweetheart, suit-able, it means it’s a good name.”

“Oh goody,” she beamed, “I feel vewy hot.”

I touched the side of her face with the back of my fingers and she was rather warm, her face was also looking rather pink. I pressed the call button and was relieved to see Nettie appear. “Problems, Lady C?”

“She, I mean, Jemima is looking a bit pink and she says she’s feeling hot.”

“Okay, let’s have a look. Ooh you do a bit don’t you? Here, pop this on your forehead,” Nettie placed a strip thermometer on Jemima’s forehead and lifted her arm to feel her pulse. “Um, a bit fast. I’m going to ask the nice doctor to come and see you, Jemima, I hope that’s all right.”

“Do we need to get mum?” I asked.

“That’s her now,” said Nettie, looking down the ward. “I’ll page the paediatrician, be back in a tick.” She rushed off to do her job and Jemima’s mum returned.

“I called the nurse a moment ago, Jemima, is looking a bit flushed and she says she’s hot. She’s gone to page the doctor.”

“Oh, you feeling a bit hot, Darling?”

“Yes Mummy, vewy hot.”

“Would you like a little drink?”

“No fank you, I feew icky, Mummy.”

Thankfully her mother seemed to know how to raise the bed up and handed me a grey, papier mache receiver to hold in front of the stricken child. I was mortified, knowing that if she was sick, I’d follow her lead. My stomach churned when the dog threw up, so humans, even the miniature variety, got a full response. I didn’t have a weak stomach, I could vomit for yards.

Then her mother stepped on my toe and I squeaked and jumped. It bloody hurt. She took over catching the unmentionable while I retired hurt to a safe distance, out of the firing line. So, I’m a wimp? I know it quite well and am secure in my knowledge. Perhaps it’s just as well I’m not a mum, dormice don’t vomit, they just keel over and croak–much more civilised.

The paediatrician arrived and I was, not surprisingly, asked to leave. Promising I’d return tomorrow, I slipped on my shoes, my toe was quite sore and throbbing, and limped back to my car.

I gave the felts and the comics to Jemima’s mother as I left.

The drive home in bare feet was bliss, although my toe was still smarting. I nearly dumped the shoes in the waste bin walking back to the car, then realised they were Manolo Blahnik’s, which I’d picked up for under four quid. Mind you, they were more for decoration than practical purpose, unless you’re a supermodel. I’m most certainly not–too fat.