LITMIR.BIZ

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      Joan’s smile broadened into one of real warmth. She came down the last steps and shook his hand firmly. ‘Dr Armstrong—Max. I’ve heard so much about you. How kind of you to come and help. Cathy’s had so much to do, and she was working right up to last night. I don’t think she’s had a wink of sleep, but she never complains. It is good of you to offer to carry the boxes upstairs for her.’

      Cathy groaned under her breath. She could almost hear the violins!

      Or was it the sound of Max’s smothered laughter?

      ‘My pleasure, Mrs Harris,’ he said with a smile that was almost civilised.

      Joan shot Cathy a keen look. ‘I’ve got an idea—why don’t you go upstairs and tell Max where to put everything, and I’ll try and sort things out logically in the van—oh, and you could make a pot of tea while you’re up there—I could just murder a cup!’ and Cathy, comprehensively outmanoeuvred by a pair of masters, grumbled up the stairs and put the kettle on.

      By the time the tea was brewed the van was nearly empty, and the three bedrooms and the little sitting-room were piled high with seemingly endless boxes.

      As for Max, he was almost charming, and Joan, despite her advancing years still an excellent judge of what she described as ‘horseflesh’, declared him later to be absolutely perfect.

      ‘I couldn’t have made him better for you myself,’ she said as Cathy and Stephen left her house the following day. ‘He’s just what the doctor ordered!’

      ‘In which case, it’s time the little men in white coats came and took the good doctor away,’ Cathy said laughingly, then, with an affectionate hug and kiss, she slid behind the wheel of her little car and set off for Barton-Under-Edge.

      They had spent the night with Joan in Bristol having returned the van, and were going to spend the day unpacking before Stephen started school the following day, and Cathy was using her final week’s holiday to settle them in and do a bit of homemaking—the last chance she would have before she started her new job.

      Delphine, the au pair, arrived on Tuesday, by which time everything was unpacked and ready.

      She was a delightful girl, and Cathy, much to her relief, liked her on sight. So, more importantly, did Stephen, and as he was also settling in well at his new school it was with a light heart and in a thoroughly optimistic frame of mind that Cathy set off for work the following Monday morning.

      Considering that they were living on top of each other, Max had maintained a remarkably low profile during the previous week; apart from a visit from Stan the gardener, to tell her that she and Stephen could feel free to use the area of garden beyond the stables, and Agnes the housekeeper popping in to ask if there was anything she could do, they had had no contact with their landlord, and Cathy was beginning to think that renting his flat wouldn’t be so bad as she had first feared.

      Working with him, however, would be a totally different kettle of fish, she was certain. Still, she was on firm ground there, and not even he could shake her confidence in her ability as a doctor.

      Her first patient, however, was less enthusiastic.

      A well-dressed, athletic-looking man in his early thirties, he walked into the room, took one look at her and stopped in his tracks.

      ‘Oh.’

      She glanced down at the notes. ‘Mr Carver? Do come in. I’m Dr Harris. Take a seat.’

      He hesitated, and then with a resigned sigh he lowered himself into the chair she had positioned beside the desk, and gave her a wary smile.

      ‘I wasn’t expecting a woman,’ he offered.

      She grinned. That’s equality for you. For years women have expected their doctors to be men. For some reason men find it uncomfortable when the boot’s on the other foot, but don’t worry, the most important thing is that I’m a doctor. Now, what can I do for you?’

      He paused for a second, then took a deep breath and met her eyes. He was quite clearly worried. He had been fitted in as an emergency, and her list being the lightest on her first morning, he had been sent to her.

      ‘What’s wrong, Mr Carver?’ she prompted gently.

      He dropped his eyes to his hands. ‘I think I might have testicular cancer.’

      So that was it. She set down her pen and leant back in her chair. ‘What makes you think that?’

      He let his breath out on a sigh. ‘I saw the nurse a few months ago—she runs a well-person clinic. She gave me a leaflet on self-examination, and I’ve been doing it regularly ever since. My brother thought I was crazy, but it’s so simple—I just do it in the shower while I’m washing. Anyway yesterday I noticed a slight tenderness, and I think I can feel a sort of bump—nothing much, but I thought it would be a good idea to have it checked.’ He twisted his wedding-ring distractedly. ‘I haven’t told my wife. We haven’t got any children yet although just recently we’ve been leaving it to chance, but if I have got—I mean, the treatment—there won’t be any children, will there?’

      She smiled. ‘I think you’re jumping the gun here, but let’s assume I find a lump that looks suspicious. The first step then is to refer you to a specialist at the hospital. They’ll examine you and do an ultrasound to make sure that it’s not just a cyst or a hydrocele, and if they’re satisfied that it’s a tumour they’ll remove only the affected testicle. Now, if you’ve been checking yourself regularly as you say, then this will have been caught in the very early stages, and the likelihood of it having spread is very small, but speed is the important thing.’

      He didn’t look reassured. ‘And the prognosis?’

      The success rate for this type of cancer now is between ninety and ninety-eight per cent, depending on the speed with which it’s picked up and the type of cancer. And it still has to be proved to be cancer. It could be orchitis, or an inflammation of the membrane around the testicle—almost anything. The lump may not even exist except in your fears.’

      ‘Oh, it exists,’ he said hollowly. ‘I checked yesterday because it started hurting on Friday. I played squash, and I thought I’d strained it or something, but it got worse over the weekend.’

      ‘I think I should have a look before we go any further. Just slip your things off and lie down on the couch. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

      She drew the screens round him and wrote down his symptoms in the notes, then, pulling on a pair of gloves, she went behind the screen and examined him.

      Her examination finished, she stripped off her gloves and left him to dress.

      He emerged while she was writing up his notes and perched stiffly on the edge of the chair, his hands fisted on his knees, clearly tense.

      ‘Well?’ he asked after a moment.

      She set down the pen. ‘You’ve got a lump, I’ll give you that. It’s very small, but it’s there.’

      He looked searchingly at her. ‘And?’ he prompted.

      ‘I’m going to refer you to a specialist. I’ll phone him, and you should get an appointment within a matter of days. If you don’t, ring me. And don’t worry. If it is cancer, you’ve detected it very early. The operation should be very straightforward.’

      ‘And afterwards?’

      ‘After the operation, depending on the type of tumour and the existence of any secondaries, you’ll either be given chemotherapy, which has made great strides, or radiotherapy, or a combination of both. As far as fertility is concerned it will affect the other testicle temporarily. After about two years, however, it will probably have recovered enough for you to father children. However, for insurance against the unlikely event of permanent sterility in the other testicle, you will probably be advised to store semen in a sperm bank.’

      ‘Before the operation?’

      She

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