Calling All Services (Calling All... Book 1) Read online

  Calling All

  Services

  by

  Tara Ford

  Does bad luck come in threes or is that multiples of three?

  © Tara Ford 2013

  ISBN 978-1500233556

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover design by Jacqueline Abromeit

  For two of the most important people in my world,

  Mum and Dad

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my wonderful husband and children for putting up with me while I was writing this book; I will now try to be a wife and mum again. I won’t insist that you give me opinions on each and every chapter (although you’ve read those chapters six times or more), while forsaking dinner, packed lunches, Britain’s Got Talent, football, friends, clean and ironed clothes to wear, a tidy home and a normal life.

  I would also like to thank my sister Jane for enduring the painstaking task of reading and scrutinising part of this book, whilst feeding and nurturing one of my neglected sons.

  A big thank-you goes to Clair Fowles for her exuberant enthusiasm, praise and dogged inspiration. Your text messages pushed me to persevere and succeed. I would also like to thank the receptionist (now known as Rosie) in a doctor’s surgery whose enthusiasm inspired me to continue writing; her approval was uplifting – and all the more so because she was a stranger to me.

  Thank you Pat Ford for always being there and for making me laugh too much. A heart-warming thank-you to Debra Watts (Flo), who took on the task of reading without hesitation, and even though I hadn’t seen her for years.

  Thank you to Sharen Compton for showing her support, she’s almost as ‘lovely’ as me and when she decides to write, I’ll return the favour.

  Here’s to three wonderful people, Jane Hodges, Dawn Hayter and Michelle Jarrold – thank you all for putting up with me, not only whilst writing this book but in general day-to-day life. A huge thank-you goes to Daniel Hayter, and an apology for the constant badgering. Thank you Tracey Rawlings for being my no. 1 fan but I’m sure your dreams of fame and/or fortune will not be fulfilled.

  I would also like to thank two beautiful people, Sarah Chambers and Jo Glazebrook for their support through my writing journey. I promise to stop talking about it now and let you get on with your busy schedules. And last but by no means least, Colin Croucher, thanks for an insight in to the future and watch this space.

  The biggest thank-you goes to you for taking the time to read this book.

  I hope you will enjoy it.

  Tara Ford

  http://taraford.weebly.com

  Alex

  How could this have happened?

  Only four hours ago I left work to go to the local supermarket to pick up a few things before early closing. I was feeling fine. Now I was lying on a hospital bed.

  This can’t be happening to me. I’m fit and healthy. I never visit the doctor and I don’t take any medications. I am Alex Frey, a successful, middle-aged businesswoman, a nurturing mum, a devoted wife and a bloody good housekeeper. I quit smoking four years ago. My alcohol consumption is so low that on the odd occasion when I do venture out with friends, I’m known as ‘the lightweight’ – two vodkas and I need to be carried home in a delirious state. I’ve never taken drugs (unless you include six paracetamol taken in a day... once) and I have a reasonably healthy diet apart from the Chinese takeaway on Friday nights. Okay, I’m slightly overweight but not drastically. I don’t have time to be unwell and now I’m stuck here in a hospital, feeling horribly... unwell.

  Glancing down at my bare legs and feet I cringed as my imaginative, drug-addled mind played tricks on me. Why had I not paid a little more attention to grooming when it came to the regions below my knees? The long brown bristles stood erect like a hedgehog’s back, waving and shouting at me to remove them quickly, before anyone noticed. Weaving in and out of each hair like a raging river, a worrying purple rash cascaded down my legs.

  Looking further down, I noticed two well-worn feet and ten little toes oscillating and protesting – “Hello... we need a pedicure.” A slight understatement: my toes needed a complete renovation.

  It had been terribly embarrassing earlier when the nurse asked me to remove my clothing and don a pink, flowery gown with a gaping hole all the way up the back. Thank goodness I hadn’t worn any of my tattered, ‘replacements required urgently’ underwear and the gown was long enough to cover ugly cellulite-laden thighs. The unattractive, bubbly lumps were on my ‘to do’ list, although liposuction was probably the only option left after years of neglect.

  “You all right babe?” asked a deep-voiced man sitting in the chair next to the high-rise hospital bed. Quickly recovering from my daydream state I realised that Grant had just spoken.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I replied softly.

  Grant is my husband. We’ve been married for 24 years. He is the stereotypical tall, dark and ruggedly handsome man, only the ‘dark’ has given way to some grey trim. He is gorgeous, he is sexy and I love him crazily.

  Our friends are two-tone on the subject of our undying love and lust for each other: some say it is ‘weird’ or ‘unusual’ after so many years of being together while others think it’s ‘cute’ or ‘sweet’. I just think it is great to be married to my best friend. I’ve been truly blessed with a happy, long-lasting marriage.

  We have four lovely children and a peaceful life – what more could a woman ask for? Eternal health, maybe? Don’t get me wrong, we’ve been through some tough times in the past. I only hope this won’t turn out to be another one of those difficult periods, which always seem to come out of the blue.

  The events leading up to my present situation had happened so quickly that we were somewhat shocked. Life had been plodding on as normal until this afternoon. Now, feeling sure that Grant was more apprehensive about the situation than I was, I wondered if my lack of worry and exaggerated concern about my appearance was due to the effects of the intravenous drip in my hand.

  “I’m going to nip outside and call the kids. I’ll let them know we might be here all night.” Standing up, Grant attempted a half-hearted smile. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. You go and have your cigarette.” I winked at him knowingly.

  “I won’t be long. I’ll tell the kids to lock the front door and go to bed.” Grant reciprocated with a twitch in his eye and left the room.

  I could never work out how he managed to do such a cool and sexy wink by barely blinking.

  Bless him, I knew he needed to get outside, have a cigarette and think things through. And of course, phone the kids.

  “Is everything okay?” A voice came from the open door.

  Startled, I looked up to see the nurse who had given me the robe earlier.

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied.

  “I saw your husband leaving. Is he…?”

  “Oh yes, he is coming back in a minute. He’s just gone out to phone our kids.” Suddenly feeling guilty that Grant had also gone outside to smoke on the hospital grounds, I pictured him standing right next to the No Smoking sign and offered her a weak grin.

  “The doctor should be round to see you soon.”

  “Oh, okay, thanks.” I managed to smile sweetly, actually wishing she would leave me alone for a few minutes to have a think about this damned situa
tion myself.

  “Can I get you anything?” asked the young nurse.

  “No, I’m fine, but thank you anyway,” I replied, fidgeting uncomfortably on the bed. The nurse paused as she was leaving. “Would you like me to close the door?”

  “No, could you leave it open please?” The thought of the door being closed was intolerable as the small, bleak room would then look and feel even more like a prison cell than it did already. At least with it open I could watch all the nurses hurrying by at such a fast pace, they looked as if they were about to miss a bus. Now and again people wearing ordinary clothes rushed past the door looking very busy and important. Some were carrying papers, others had colleagues towing along behind them, carrying what looked like notes and files. I guessed they were doctors or consultants. When are you coming in here to see me? I wondered impatiently. I want to get out of here and go home!

  Staring at the bland walls, I lay very still, aching from head to toe. Two large windows covered the wall on one side of the room, each fitted with opaque glass. Unlike normal hospital rooms, there was little medical equipment on display apart from the drip stand and a small wash basin. A door opposite the end of the bed led to an en-suite bathroom. Looking around, I wondered where the TV/telephone console was – it had to be here somewhere otherwise patients would go totally insane with boredom. Maybe this was just an initial treatment room. After all, I had been admitted to the Medical Assessment Unit. Perhaps they needed to assess me first, decide what was wrong and then put me in the appropriate place, or better still, send me home. Maybe once I’d seen the doctor they’d say that I didn’t need anything else. After all, the drip in my hand contained a massive dose of bug-killing juice. Those nasty microscopic germs would be paying the price for ruining my Friday night, zap, zap, zap! The worst of it was that it was supposed to be ‘Good’ Friday.

  Grant reappeared in the room. “The kids are going to bed, and Joe has locked the door.”

  “Did you have a cigarette?”

  “Yep!” Grant smiled and sat back in the chair. “I take it the doctor hasn’t been to see you yet?”

  “No, how long have we been here now?”

  “Over an hour. They did say the doctor would be here soon. I think you’ll probably end up having to stay the night, babe.” Grant looked disappointed.

  “Great!” Had I only been here for an hour, for goodness’ sake? I didn’t want to stay here. There were things to do; it was the weekend and I loved weekends. This was a long one due to Easter and Jack was arriving home tomorrow. I could not stay in hospital.

  Waking with a jump, I realised I’d nodded off. Looking up at the large, black-rimmed clock on the wall, I noted that it was now 11.20pm. An empty feeling settled in my stomach – Grant was right when he said I’d be here all night. He was curled up in the sofa chair next to the bed, snoring. Hoping and praying he wouldn’t start the usual dribbling onto his shoulder or the floor, I imagined the embarrassment if the nurse walked in, or a doctor with a tribe of colleagues. My warped sense of humour pictured them slipping in a slimy puddle that had dribbled and drooled from the corner of my husband’s drooping mouth. Smiling at his sleeping form, I reminisced about the tales he used to tell me regarding his commute to London, every day, some years ago. Each evening he’d fall asleep on the two-hour journey home and usually have a damp shoulder when he walked through the door. Repressing a giggle so I wouldn’t wake him, I stared intently at the ceiling fan, whilst I was still intoxicated with medication.

  Grant stirred in the chair; I knew it had been a long day for him. I felt so sorry that we had ended up here. It was our favourite night of the week. Our plans had not included this. There was never much planned anyway, apart from the usual end-of-week special fried rice and chicken chow mein; then a bit of channel-hopping to find something interesting to watch, and an early night when we gave up trying to find a suitable programme.

  Just as I started wondering where the elusive doctor might be and how far down his list of patients I was, Grant woke up.

  “You must be so tired, love. Why don’t you go home? Nothing is happening here,” I sighed.

  “No, I’ll stay till the doctor comes – find out what’s going on.” Sleepily, Grant pulled himself up in the chair. “How are you feeling now?”

  I thought for a moment. “Just like I have the flu.”

  That wouldn’t have been so bad, but the purple rash was rapidly spreading all the way around to the backs of my lower legs and smothering my feet. It appeared to be creeping upwards, too. “Both my ankles are hurting now,” I said as I tried to move them but they now felt as stiff as a dead hamster.

  “The rash is spreading,” he remarked.

  “Umm... I know,” I replied, semi-dazed and abandoned by rational thought.

  The rash had been a very strange occurrence. Leaving work at just before four o’clock I’d noticed that one of my ankles felt very stiff and achy on the accelerator pedal while I was driving. Thinking that perhaps I’d strained a muscle somehow without realising, I limped into the local supermarket and still managed to pick up some bits. I knew then that something was very wrong. Carrying a lighter shopping basket than expected to the checkout, I decided to pick up any other requirements over the weekend. It was frustrating anyway, having to go to the supermarket at all, but the shop that I own doesn’t sell everything that I needed.

  Returning to the car, I threw the carrier bag onto the passenger seat and climbed in. Before setting off on the twenty-minute journey home I lifted my trouser leg to investigate – perhaps I had a bruise, or something else that would qualify the pain. To my astonishment my shin was covered in a blotchy, purple rash. I’d never had a rash before in my whole life. It certainly wasn’t a shaving rash; my legs hadn’t seen daylight in months so why put them through the arduous task of shaving? Or worse still, the nightmare of the epilator!

  Being the type of person who had no allergies, as far as I knew (well, maybe just teenagers), what could it be?

  On arriving home, I started to feel like a head-cold was setting in and my neck began to stiffen up. Probably just stress, I guessed. Grant could give me a neck massage later and that would make things better. It was about time I got some TLC.

  The rash was steadily creeping around my ankles, making its angry presence known. Sitting down, I opened my laptop and proceeded to find the NHS helpline on the internet. Ten minutes later, having completed the questionnaire I saw the word Meningitis. Please seek medical attention urgently.

  Great! I really couldn’t be bothered with this, not tonight. I didn’t fit the bill completely anyway – I could stare at bright lights, I thought to myself, as I zoomed in on the light from the table lamp next to me, so it must be wrong.

  When I informed Grant about the internet diagnosis he looked at me vacantly, and I knew he was thinking the same as me. Did I really have to do this? It was bloody Easter for goodness’ sake! Perhaps it would all go away and I’d be better in the morning. But it didn’t get any better and it didn’t go away, in fact, I felt much worse as the evening progressed.

  “I’ll phone the clinic, get someone to come out, and then we won’t have to go anywhere,” said Grant.

  Although the rash was quite unusual for me, I didn’t want to become a patient at the General, so I was happy to have a home visit. Hopefully I would be able to take some medicine to clear it up.

  As it turned out, I was instructed to go to the nearest hospital to be seen. An appointment was promptly made and we had 25 minutes to get there.

  On arrival at St. Johns, we were directed to the waiting room and after a minute or two I was called in to see a doctor. Ten minutes later we were on our way to the General, just out of town. I was being admitted!

  “You must go straight away,” the doctor had said.

  Was this serious? Everything had happened so quickly, and Grant and I travelled to the hospital in stunned silence.

  Anyway, much to our great delight, the elusive night shift doctor turn
ed up to see me at around 8.15 the following morning.

  We had waited a mere nine and a half hours for his arrival, but we were not bitter. More appropriately, we were utterly fed up... well, actually, we were totally peed off! We hadn’t a clue what was going on during the night. Would I be staying in? What was wrong with me? What was going to happen? Time ticks by very slowly when you are waiting and waiting and waiting some more, for what seemed like the longest night ever.

  By the way, during the ‘longest night ever’ I’d had two observation checks by the young nurse as I drifted in and out of sleep. A consultant of some description (he probably told me who he was but I hadn’t listened in my semi-comatose, sleep-deprived state) came in to look at the ever-increasing rash and muttered, “Umm...” Pulling my spiky legs around, he twisted my ankles, which were very painful, and then said, “The doctor will be round shortly.”

  Well, who the hell are you then if you’re not the doctor? I’d screamed in my head. Then, to our amazement, he just left.

  Spending the rest of the night drifting in and out of sleep, once or twice Grant blearily staggered out to ‘get some fresh air’, right next to the No Smoking sign.

  So, back to the morning, which had thankfully arrived, we were feeling quite wretched and weary.

  “Well, it’s not meningitis, as we first thought, so we need to do some more tests,” stated the doctor as he pressed on my hedgehog legs.

  The rash was now spreading to the tops of both legs and a frightening paralysis was setting in. Although the invading purple blotches resembled a meningitis rash, which did not blanch under a glass, I really had them fooled as to what it was, and the doctor looked rather perplexed. He mumbled long, medical-type words to his two colleagues while they scribbled notes in a frantic fashion. Then they all left the room.