Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 758 by Angharad

I had just got home and was about to organise the evening meal when the phone rang. “Hello, can I speak with Cathy Watts or Stella Cameron please?”

“This is Cathy Watts, what do you want?”

“This the sister on the coronary care ward.” My blood ran cold.

“Yes?”

“We have admitted Professor Agnew, he gave you as his daughter and next of kin.”

“How is he?”

“He’s okay, although he has what we call unstable angina.”

“What’s that?”

“Angina brought on during rest.”

“So does he still have it?”

“He’s improving, although he has to have some more tests and may require an operation.” This wasn’t making me feel any better.

“Can I see him?”

“Of course you can, in fact I know he is hoping you’d want to come in, he’d like you to bring his pyjamas and some toiletries, you know the sort of stuff he’ll need.”

“Um – yes, of course, I’ll see to it right away.” I put the phone down and shuddered. ‘If he dies, it’s entirely my fault.’ I stood in the hallway and burst into tears.

“What’s the matter?” asked Stella rushing to see me.

“Tom is in hospital and it’s all my fault.”

“He was rushing about this morning.”

“Doing what?”

“Well, we had to get your car back for starters. I drove him out there and he brought yours back. Then he was going to go to the uni when his chest pain got worse.”

“You mean he had it already?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know, why didn’t someone tell me?”

“You were too busy being the world’s victim.”

“I wish you’d told me.”

“Why? What difference would it have made?”

“I’d have been upset.”

“Yeah, and in your state would probably have made it to Beachy bloody Head.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

“We can argue that later, what does he need?”

“I’ll go and pack it.”

“Well hurry up while I get Puddin’ ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To come with us.”

“They won’t let you take babies into hospital.”

“Why not, it’s where most of them are born?”

“Infection risk.”

“That’s new, they didn’t enforce it when I was nursing.”

“They do now, I nearly got refused permission to take Meems in with me and she was three.”

“That is ridiculous.”

“It might well be, anyway, I have to pack his jim-jams amongst other things.” Which was precisely what I did. Then as Stella wasn’t able to leave Puddin’ at the local cattery, I drove on to the hospital and practically ran up to the ward.

After speaking with the nurse – I had to beg permission to get on the ward as it wasn’t officially visiting time. Tom was eating when I walked up to his bed.

“Daddy, I’m so sorry,” I said blubbing all over him.

“Och that’s okay, jest lemme finish ma piece,” he said tucking into a slice of bread and jam.

I got a stacking plastic chair and took it to his bedside. After sitting on it for a few minutes he looked at me and winked. “Cathy, did ye bring in my jammies?”

“Yes, Daddy, I think I’ve brought everything you’ll need.”

“Och, ye’re a guid lassie.”

“If I was, you wouldn’t be in here, would you?”

“Ach, ye canna blame yersel’ for whit happens tae others.”

“I can when it’s my daddy.”

He held out his arms to give me a hug and I almost dived into them, so hungry was I for his forgiveness. “Ye did naethin’ wrang.”

“I did, I almost worried you to death.”

“I wis a wee bitty worried, that’s true.”

“Well, I’m more than a wee bitty worried for you, you silly old goat.”

He laughed at my joke, then he turned very pale and pointed to a papier mache receiver on top of his locker. I passed it to him and he was sick. He looked very pale and was breathing hard and sweating. He lay back and seemed to be drifting off to sleep – then he stopped breathing, least I think he did – I pressed the nurse call and when I screeched at her that he’d stopped breathing things happened very quickly, including throwing me out of the ward.

Doctors appeared running from every direction within a couple of minutes. I hoped the crash team had done their job. I was too frightened to cry and paralysed by a fear that if I did anything other than sit there and worry, he’d die. I didn’t even call Stella, she couldn’t do anything and I suspect she was worried enough anyway.

My phone beeped and it was a message from Simon:

Hi Babes, how is Tom? Girls R well, talk L8ter. Si.

I didn’t know what to say or do. I didn’t know if he was alive or dead – I mean, how do you tell someone in text that he’s very ill, without worrying them half to death? I wanted my girls home, I wanted Simon’s shoulder to cry on, but most of all, I wanted Tom to recover. If he died, something inside me would die as well, and I’d never forgive myself.

I did nothing with the reply to Simon, I simply sat and waited for news about my adoptive father.