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ward already when she arrived at eight, and she found him in Mary Jenkins’ room studying her charts.

      He glanced up, said, ‘Good morning,’ under his breath, and continued to study the charts.

      After a few seconds he returned the board to the end of her bed and left the room, beckoning Jo to follow.

      ‘She’s worse,’ he said briefly. ‘She’ll have to have a section now. Her BP’s still climbing, and the hydrallazine isn’t touching it. She’s not losing fluid significantly, either, and she complained of a headache this morning. I don’t think we can leave it, and, frankly, I’m not happy to induce her. I popped in last night with Owen Davie and we decided that the night staff should watch her and, if she deteriorated, they should assume she’s going to Theatre this morning, so she’s had nothing by mouth since midnight and she had her premed an hour ago when I came in.’

      ‘Has she signed the consent form?’

      He nodded. ‘The paperwork’s been done.’ He met her eyes, his face carefully blank.

      ‘Your theatre’s all ready—we’ll use that. Your list will be delayed a while, I’m afraid, but it can’t be helped.’

      Jo tried to control her anger. It was her list that day—and Mary Jenkins had been admitted by her. She should be in charge, but Alex was obviously making a point by taking over.

      ‘It could get tricky,’ he said softly. ‘Would you mind if I assist?’

      So she was to perform the operation after all! He could easily have taken over, but he hadn’t, and she felt her resentment simply drain away.

      ‘Of course not,’ she said quietly. ‘Are you going up now?’

      He nodded.

      ‘I have a couple of patients for my list later this morning I’d like to see first, if I’ve got time?’

      ‘Fine. I’ll see you up there.’

      He hesitated, as if he was going to say something else, and then turned away abruptly. She watched him go with mixed feelings, and then went through into the four-bedded ward where her two pre-op patients for that morning were waiting.

      The first lady, June Turner, was in for a routine Caesarean section, her fourth in six years.

      Jo perched on the end of her bed and smiled.

      ‘Hello, June. How are you?’

      ‘Marvellous! Mike’s coming in soon ready for the big event—oh, here he is now! Hello, darling!’

      The stocky young man bent and kissed his wife, and smiled confidently at Jo. ‘Morning, Dr Harding. All ready for off?’

      ‘Yes, she’s all ready, but we may have a minor delay. I’m glad you’re here, though, because I wanted to talk to you again about sterilisation——’

      ‘No!’ they said in unison.

      Jo sighed. ‘You know, having so many pregnancies with a scarred uterus is just asking for trouble; you’ve got three lovely children, and this baby—don’t you think you’re being just a little rash?’

      June smiled. ‘Why don’t you let us worry about that? We know the risks—we’re intelligent and educated, and we’ve talked about it at great length. Don’t worry, Dr Harding, we don’t intend to have any more, but neither of us is happy with the idea of losing our choice. We won’t have an accident.’

      Jo laughed. ‘How many times have I heard that? OK, I’ll leave it for now, but I thought I’d just check to see if you’d changed your minds before we take you up to Theatre. When I see the scar and how it’s standing up, I’ll discuss it with you at the time. You don’t have to decide now.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll see you both later.’

      With a smile, she left the Turners and moved on to the next room.

      The woman lying there was very still, and Jo sat beside her and watched her for a second before touching her hand.

      ‘Mrs Price? Sally?’

      The woman turned her head towards Jo and smiled wearily. ‘Hi.’

      ‘How are you feeling?’

      She shrugged. ‘I’m just wondering if there’s any point. I’m bound to lose it anyway, and in the circumstances perhaps it would be the best thing——’

      She turned away, and Jo squeezed her hand.

      ‘Be positive, Sally. Your husband wouldn’t want to see you so sad.’

      ‘We’ve tried for so long—so many miscarriages. For him to die now, when I’ve got to this stage——’

      Jo felt helpless as she watched the woman’s shoulders shaking gently with grief. She had been widowed in a senseless accident two months before, and was in to have a cervical suture put in to try and prevent the loss of this most precious baby, the last in a long line of tragic attempts to carry a baby to term.

      Owen had refused to give her a cervical suture with the last, maintaining that there was little chance of it working anyway and she was young, so there was plenty of time, but this time was quite literally her last chance to have her husband’s child, and Jo had fought tooth and nail. In the end Owen had agreed.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Price said quietly now. ‘I know I’ll feel differently about it later, but it’s just that I can’t bear the thought of any more pain—you know, it’s a real bereavement. I didn’t realise until Tony died that I had felt the same way every time I lost a baby. Each time you build up such hope, and each time—it’s just too much, after a while. I almost wish it would just happen and then it would be over.’

      Jo was more determined than ever that this woman would carry her baby to term and know the joy of motherhood.

      She stood up. ‘One day at a time, Sally,’ she told her gently. ‘I’ll see you this afternoon to tell you how it went.’

      Donning her confident, professional smile, Jo swept out of the ward and up to Theatre. There, in the changing-room, she leant against the cubicle wall and emptied her mind. Deep in the background was the sadness, but that never truly left her, and was a spur and motivation for the way she lived her life. Now, she had to make sure that Mary Jenkins’ baby survived her mother’s illness and was safely delivered.

      Scrubbed and changed into the disgustingly unflattering green theatre pyjamas and white anti-static boots, her gown and mask tied, she made her way into the operating theatre where Alex was already waiting.

      Their patient was in the ante-room, and Jo could hear the anaesthetist talking to her.

      Suddenly he stuck his head round the corner.

      ‘She’s complaining of flashing lights—I think she could be going into a fit.’

      Jo moved instantly, but Alex was there before her, snapping out orders and setting up a lytic cocktail drip which was attached to the cannula mercifully already in her arm.

      As he connected it, she went into the tonic stage of the convulsion, her body going rigid, her face contorted. After a few seconds she lapsed into the clonic stage, jerking uncontrollably. They held her arm still to try and prevent the drip from being wrenched out, and gradually as the sedatives took effect the convulsions eased and she lapsed into a coma.

      Jo looked up and met Alex’s eyes, and he winked at her reassuringly.

      ‘Your patient, Dr Harding—I think we should proceed with the section when we’ve scrubbed again.’

      She smiled faintly at him. ‘Good idea.’

      They walked out to the scrub-room and stood side by side at the sinks. She was tempted to lean on him, and tell him how grateful she was that he had been there to share the horror of that moment.

      She’d never seen an eclamptic fit before, and, while she was glad that

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