CAROL MARINELLI - The Italian's Touch

‘I hadn’t even dialled the station number when I saw Danny walking towards me. His face was grim and I just knew what was coming. I can remember actually feeling sorry for Danny when he delivered the news. It must have been the worst moment in his nursing career—telling a close colleague that her husband, the father of her five-year-old son, was seriously injured, on his way in with full resuscitation in progress.’

‘Did you have to work on your husband?’

‘No, nothing so dramatic. We weren’t so short-staffed then.’ Fleur managed a wry laugh but there was a catch in it and she started to cry. ‘I just sat in the staffroom with the nurse supervisor. She kept offering to make phone calls, but I needed to know how bad it was for myself before I tried to tell others.’ She was crying in earnest now. ‘Then Danny was in the doorway, with Kathy beside him. They didn’t have to say anything. One look at their faces and I knew it was over.’ She looked at the picture on the mantelpiece, the utter despair in her voice so achingly apparent that Mario wrapped his arm around her as if he could somehow shield her from the bitter end that was coming. ‘I knew then that Rory, my Rory, Alex’s dad, wasn’t going to be coming home, not ever.’

He let her cry for a while, his arm tightly around her as she wept onto his chest. Finally, when her mascara had long since gone and she’d reached the hiccoughing stage, he gently sat her up. Without a word he made his way to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water which Fleur sipped gratefully.

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