Second Opinion by Claire Rayner

voice was a little husky. ‘You’re staying here, crowded or not. We’ll manage fine.’
    Bridget came drifting back from the small room she was sharing with Vanny, her face wreathed in smiles. ‘That’s better,’ she said approvingly, as though she were talking to a backward child. ‘Now listen, hon. You just leave us be. You go to your work and me and Vanny, we’ll take a little nap to get over last night and then when you get home —’
    ‘I’ll cook us a great dinner and we’ll catch up on all the news,’ George said, getting to her feet. ‘Now, is there anything else you need? Towels in the bathroom and —’
    ‘We’re just fine,’ Bridget said. ‘Off you go. No, leave the dishes. We’ll do them. Go on now! We need a bit of space, you know?’
    And George laughed and went. It was all she could do under the circumstances. The next few weeks were not going to be at all easy, but she’d manage somehow. And maybe it would turn out that all was well with her mother after all and Bridget had just been fussing. Vanny had seemed tired this morning, of course, but then she would. She’d never been to Europe before, and a long flight across time zones made the youngest and most chipper feel lousy, she told herself as she ran for the bus that would take her over the river to Shadwell. It’ll all be OK, I’m sure it will.
    She had little time to think about her personal affairs once she got to the hospital. It was almost lunchtime before she reached her office, having had to go in the long way round via the rear entrance in order to avoid the group of protesters at the main entrance, who still bore their battered placards proclaiming ‘The NHS For The People Not The Market Place’, and ‘Down With Trusts — No Privatization’ in spite of the fact that no one in authority paid them anyattention at all, and then found she was wanted urgently on a consult in Paediatrics. She muttered under her breath, looking at her cluttered desk, and then shrugged her shoulders and went They wouldn’t call her if it wasn’t important.
    And was that much angrier when she got there and was told what the problem was with a baby that Prudence Jennings, the Paediatric Registrar, had just admitted. ‘She wants some special blood work done,’ the nurse at the desk told her. ‘She’s down in the cubicle at the far end.’
    ‘Blood work?’ George frowned. ‘Couldn’t you have just sent the blood over to me?’
    The nurse shrugged. ‘I said that but she insisted she wanted you to take it yourself. She’ll explain, I imagine.’ She sniffed suddenly, showing her own irritation for the first time. ‘I’ve taken blood from younger babies than that one and had no problems. I could have done it easily. I can’t imagine why she had to drag you over here. Don’t blame me. I wouldn’t have bothered you, take it from me.’ And she looked as self-righteous as only nurses can in such circumstances.
    George found Dr Jennings in the last cubicle, sitting beside a cot in which a small fretful infant lay, rocking its head from side to side. She was staring down at him with a frown between her brows.
    ‘Oh, Dr Barnabas, it’s good of you to come over,’ she said, glancing at George briefly. ‘I’ve got a tricky one here.’
    ‘Oh?’ George said and looked from the baby to the blood-taking tray that was waiting beside the cot on a locker. ‘I understand you want some blood work done? Why not just send the blood?’
    ‘That’s right’ Prudence was still looking at the child and seemed not to have noticed the question. ‘I made sure they had everything ready. Listen, Dr Barnabas, how old do you think this child is?’
    ‘Eh?’ George, still annoyed and wanting an answer to thequestion why she’d been brought to the ward to do a job one of the nurses could have handled perfectly well, let alone one of the medical staff, was startled. ‘How old? I don’t know. Isn’t it on the notes?’
    Prudence shook her head.