Marion Lennox: Prescription-One Husband

At the end of the chaos Quinn Gallagher was waiting.

So was Sam!

Poor Sam. Fern thought guiltily of her future husband as she pulled up outside Frank Reid’s place. Sam would be mortified that Fern hadn’t stayed by his side to hold his basin-but if she’d stayed with Sam, Maud would be dead by now.

Sam would just have to understand. He’d have gone home to his parents and Fern would get to him as soon as possible.

Odd that Sam’s need didn’t give Fern the same feeling in the back reaches of her heart that Quinn Gallagher’s demand for her presence gave her!

Frank Reid’s home was another farm half a mile from Fern’s uncle’s. Fern knocked twice, noting that Frank’s car was by the door but that the dogs were still tied. Usually when Frank was home his dogs were by his side. He’d come home in a hurry.

No answer.

Fern pushed the unlocked door inward and walked inside. Frank must know that she was here. The dogs were raising enough din to waken the dead.

‘Frank?’

‘I’m in here, girl…’ Frank’s voice came from down the passage, faint but distinct.

He was in his bedroom, huddled under a mountain of bedclothes. His elderly frame seemed to have shrunk and Fern felt her heart lurch in pity.

And in anger. How dare Lizzy play such a stupid trick. Frank didn’t deserve this!

‘I thought I’d better check on my favourite wedding guest,’ she smiled, swallowing her anger in an effort to reassure the farmer, and crossed to the bed. ‘How are you, Frank?’

‘I think I’ve stopped throwing up,’ he whispered. ‘Though I still feel I’m going to, and my stomach feels as if I’ve been kicked by a horse.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ Fern lifted his wrist and was reassured by his pulse rate. Blood pressure a hundred and fifty on eighty. Acceptable…

‘When were you last ill?’

‘About fifteen minutes ago.’

Fern nodded. ‘And you feel like death?’

‘St Peter’s got his book open, girl,’ Frank groaned. ‘I can almost read it from here.’

‘Well, close your eyes and roll over,’ Fern ordered and chuckled as he groaned again. ‘You know what I’m going to do, then?’

‘Stick something in my backside, at a guess,’ he growled. ‘It’s what you doctors seem to like doing most. I always knew you had a sadistic streak in you, Fern Rycroft.’

‘It’s a requisite for medical school,’ she agreed, filling a syringe from the contents of Quinn’s bag. ‘I’m just giving you some metoclopramide to stop the nausea.’

‘I’m not sure I don’t prefer a bit of vomiting.’ Frank dug his head into the pillows and swore. ‘If I could just see what’s written on them danged pages I wouldn’t be so worried.’

Fern laughed. She administered the needle with care. ‘There. Pinprick, Frank. Admit it?’

‘Not on your nelly.’ Frank rolled back to look up at her, only the smile behind his eyes admitting that it hadn’t hurt too much. ‘I don’t encourage you lot one bit.’

Fern smiled. She left him for a moment to find a towel, soaked it with warm water and came back to sponge his face and hands.

‘Better?’

‘Yeah…’ He gripped her hands suddenly and smiled. ‘You’re a good kid, Fern. One of the best. It’s a darned shame you won’t stay…’

‘Can I do a blood sugar?’

‘If you must…’ He motioned to the bureau, grimacing as another spasm of nausea washed over him. ‘My diabetic gear’s over there. I knew I ought to do it myself but I couldn’t face the thought of getting out of bed.’

‘I don’t blame you.’ Fern crossed over and fetched Frank’s kit. Deftly she pricked his finger and produced a droplet of blood, checking it quickly for sugar. What she saw made her wince.

‘Frank…’

‘I know, I know,’ he sighed. ‘I was bloody stupid-even before the oysters. I had two glasses of beer and a lamington with lunch-things my dratted diet chart tell me to avoid like the plague-so I knew I was playing with fire. And then this…’

‘Mmm.’ Fern looked down at him, considering. He couldn’t stay here on his own and Quinn said that he had a hospital…

‘Don’t start looking at me like that, girl,’ Frank growled. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ Fern held the monitor out for him to see. ‘You need a hospital bed, Frank Reid.’

She expected him to protest. Instead, Frank just sighed and pulled the quilt tighter.

‘Yeah, well, I thought you’d say that,’ he said weakly. ‘And they do look after a man there…’

‘You’ve been there before?’ Fern asked in astonishment, and Frank nodded.

‘I had a bad hypo and a fall a few weeks ago. Doc Gallagher took me in then-and they made me right proper comfortable, I must say.’

‘Them…?’

‘Them nurses he employs and that Jess girl, whatever she is. She’s not supposed to have anything to do with the hospital but she’s a real kind-hearted lady. And Doc Gallagher looked after me a treat.’

‘That’s great,’ Fern smiled. She was a little confused but whoever all these people were it made her job here a lot easier. ‘I’ll just let Dr Gallagher know what’s going on.’

‘Bring him in when you come,’ Quinn told her when she phoned. ‘Is he right to leave alone until you’ve checked Pete and seen Lizzy? I can send the police or Jessie for him if you like.’

‘He’s stopped vomiting for the moment,’ Fern told him. ‘An hour shouldn’t do too much harm and I’ve shifted his phone so it’s close to the bed. He’s well enough-and sensible enough-to ring if he gets worse.’

Who on earth was Jessie? She didn’t know the island had a nurse called Jessie. ‘I’ll go to Pete Harny’s place now and then to Lizzy’s,’ she told him. ‘See you soon.’

‘Be fast,’ Quinn growled and disconnected.

Fern clipped the phone back to her waistband and turned to find Frank regarding her with perplexity. Clearly the afternoon’s events were finally starting to be understood.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be married, girl?’

‘You’ll have gathered we didn’t quite make it,’ Fern said cheerfully. ‘Maybe next time.’

‘Yeah, well, you’re worth waiting for,’ Frank said drily. ‘Can’t say the same for that groom of yours, though, Fern. Puffed-up bag of wind…’

Puffed up bag of wind…

Fern thought of her fiancé with a slightly guilty start.

She should ring Sam’s house and find out how he was.

Fern looked ruefully down at the mobile phone as she started the car again.

She was in a hurry. Ringing Sam was wasting time.

Ringing Sam was wasting time…

Pete Harny was fine.

The ten-year-old haemophiliac opened the door when Fern knocked and grinned hugely when he saw who it was.

‘Gee, Fern, you look a lot better like this. I like you much better in jeans. You looked a right proper twit in all that frilly white lace!’

‘That’s what I thought, too,’ Fern smiled. ‘Pete, you haven’t been sick, have you?’

‘Nah,’ he said scornfully. ‘That’s cos I didn’t eat the oysters.’

Fern nodded. This child was sharp. ‘So you worked out what caused it, then?’

‘Well, stands to reason.’ Pete grinned. ‘Mum and Dad were both sick as dogs, though they’ve stopped being sick now, and the only thing they ate and I didn’t were the oysters.’

‘Why didn’t you eat them?’ Fern asked. ‘I was sure I saw you taking a couple from the tray.’

‘Yeah, well I did,’ he said. ‘Lizzy Hurst was so insistent-and Mum says when you’re a guest you have to eat everything that’s offered to you. But I hate oysters-especially ones with gunk cooked on ‘em like garlic. So I took some and buried ‘em in one of your aunt’s pot plants. I guess you’d better dig ‘em out when you get home, Fern, or the plant’ll cark it when they rot.’