Sharon Kendrik - To Break A Doctor's Heart

She hoped that a shopping trip and a change of scene might dispel some of the niggling gloom which had recently threatened to envelop her. And yet there was no real reason for despondency—she was nineteen years old, a successful model earning a very creditable salary, with her own flat in the centre of London. What more could she possibly want?

She didn’t know, but she felt as though a better life could be within her reach, if only she knew how to go about grasping it.

Success had come to her early—she had been living on her own since she was sixteen, and she had had to learn to protect herself from the men who seemed hell-bent on seduction. She had been teased for being standoffish by the wine-swilling account executives and the braying immature city stockbrokers whom she met. But their wild, drunken parties had held not the slightest attraction for her—she preferred solitary evenings in front of the television to the forced jollity of the crowd’s ‘high jinks’.

She gave her shoulders a little shake, and mentally chided herself. It was pointless feeling sorry for herself—it was a glorious spring morning, she had a free day ahead of her, and she was going to jolly well make the most of it!

She spent an enjoyable hour looking through the racks of dresses, and eventually settled on a diaphanous creation in the palest of pink silk tulle. The skirt fell in many layers to just above the ankle and the top layer was edged with a delicate border of embroidered flowers.

It was far more than she had wanted to pay, but it was ages since she had bought anything, and besides, she felt like treating herself. She paid by cheque and, thanking the young owner, took her carrier bag and went outside.

She looked at her watch. It was getting on for midday. Maybe she should stroll on the Hill for a while and then look for somewhere to lunch.

As she opened the gates which led on to Primrose Hill, the first subtle wakenings of spring reminded her of her holiday in Greece, and her blood quickened slightly. She had stopped going to the clubs and parties which were simply a hot, smoky crush, and which she hadn’t been enjoying at all, and she felt much better for it.

Simon had been phoning her all week, but she had told him that she intended to live a quiet existence for the time being, and he had told her to ‘give him a bell’ when she felt like company again.

She had told her agent to lessen up on her bookings and had sent for several brochures from her local night school, thinking that she might take up painting. It might not completely solve her discontentment, she thought, but at least it might take her mind off it.

She walked briskly up to the summit of the hill, swinging her white and silver carrier bag as she did so. Her curls blew wildly around her head, the bright sunshine lighting them from behind so that they blazed red-gold, like a furnace.

When Claire reached the top of the hill, she stood there, breathing deeply and marvelling in the superb panoramic view across London. She could see the tall column of the Post Office Tower in the distance, and in the foreground the bizarre shrouded shape of the Zoo’s aviary.

She could see a man walking up towards her, not sticking to the path, but walking between the quaint little lamp-posts. He was moving rather oddly, she noticed. Even from a couple of hundred yards away, she could see that his face was red and glistening with sweat, and as she watched his gait became even more unsteady.

As he approached, she could hear the laboured sound of his breathing. He was pulling at his tie and then, to her absolute horror, she watched him fall to the ground, gasping, and clutching at his chest.

For a moment she remained frozen and immobile, and then she sprang into action. She had reached him in a few seconds, and she saw that his face was almost grey, and his lips tinged with blue.

‘Help me, please help me . . .’ The words died on his lips.

Claire looked around wildly. She saw a teenager on a bike, a dog running behind him.

‘Help!’ she screamed. ‘Go and ring for an ambulance. Quickly!’

To her relief he didn’t hesitate, but sped down the hill at a breakneck pace.

Claire felt utterly, utterly helpless. She looked down at the man. At least he was still breathing, although with a horrible low, moaning sound which terrified her.

She didn’t have a clue what to do; she had never even done so much as a first aid course at school. She remembered that the man had been tugging at his collar, and so she undid the two top buttons and loosened it. He had a handkerchief in his top pocket, and she gently removed it and wiped away the sweat from his face.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked, taking his hand in hers.

‘Phillips—Alex Phillips,’ he whispered.

‘Well, try not to worry, Mr Phillips,’ she told him, with more confidence than she felt. ‘The ambulance will be here soon.’

He squeezed her hand gratefully and Claire sat there praying that the ambulance would get there soon.

She heard the siren from several streets away and then she saw the ambulance speeding towards them. It skidded to a halt outside the railings, the blue light on the roof spinning round and round like a propeller. She saw the young boy run up to the vehicle and point in her direction, and then the two ambulance men were pulling the stretcher from the back and running up the hill towards them.

When they reached her, one of them put two fingers on the man’s neck.

‘Weak pulse,’ he said briefly. ‘All right, miss, we’ll just get him on the stretcher now.’

Claire stood back as they gently rolled him on to the stretcher, releasing his hand as she did so. His eyes flickered open briefly and he looked up at her.

‘Stay with me,’ he muttered. ‘Please stay.’

She looked questioningly at them. One of them shrugged.

‘That’s OK. You can come, but you’ll have to step on it.’

Forgetting her shopping, she ran behind them, back down the hill. They carefully lifted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance and Claire joined one of the crew in the back, while the other ran round to the cab, jumped in and started the engine.

She watched as the ambulanceman attached a monitor to the man’s chest, and a thin luminous green light began to track across a small screen like a television.

‘Sinus rhythm—that’s good,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘But ST elevation, though.’

He seemed to have forgotten who Claire was, he was speaking to her almost as though she were a nurse, although he might as well have been speaking in Greek, for all that she understood.

The man’s eyes flickered open again. He was middle-aged, but a slim, fit-looking middle-aged. She didn’t think that men like that had heart attacks. His thick hair was frosted with silver. It could have been her father lying there, she thought, then tried to block out the thought immediately.

He glanced over to where she sat on the edge of the opposite stretcher and gave her a weak smile. Claire smiled back as encouragingly as she could. Meanwhile the ambulance was tearing through the streets, only switching on the shrill, terrifying blare of the siren if they came to traffic jams or red lights.

Through the darkened glass at the back she could see that they were going up Haverstock Hill, and there, at last, on the right-hand side, was the entrance to the hospital.

They stopped by some double doors, where they seemed to have been expected, because they flew open immediately and two nurses and a doctor came running out to meet them.

The doctor leapt up the three steps in one, and Claire gave a small gasp. It was the man from the restaurant!

She saw the light of recognition in his eyes, and then he was turning to the patient, his fingers feeling for a pulse, his eyes glued to the small screen, watching the line of the monitor as it rhythmically rose and fell, looking to Claire’s untutored eye like a graph from one of the financial papers.