Juliet, too, was feeling tense. She was out of the smart tan suit now and wearing one of the strange white cotton gowns that open down the back. Her Irish friend had disappeared to attend to someone else, and another young nurse, new to Juliet, had to tie the tapes for her, adding to her feeling of being out of control and powerless. Perhaps that’s why they put you in these things, she thought idly, so you can’t even dress yourself, so you know you’re completely in their hands.
‘Right, Mrs Evans,’ the nurse said to her briskly but sympathetically, ‘let’s get you along into theatre ready for Dr Northfield who’ll be looking after you today. Just pop these little cotton slippers on and I’ll take you through.’
It looked more like an office than an operating theatre. It was on the ground floor, only about twelve feet square and had grey Venetian blinds at the windows, a black articulated couch that reminded Juliet of a dentist’s chair, a couple of television screens on a table next to what appeared to be a large glass box with a covered tray in it, and a further screen on the other side of the couch. The only obvious sign of the true business of this room was the pair of metal upright rods attached to the lower end of the couch, from which hung two leather loops. A picture flashed through Juliet’s mind of her body stretched out on the couch, legs wide apart, feet strung up in the loops, and eggs being pulled out of her on a string like flags from a conjuror’s hat. She shook the image away as the nurse laid a large sheet over the couch and settled her on to it, leaving her legs for the moment mercifully down and tightly held together.
‘I feel a bit jittery, I’m afraid. I’m not very good at this sort of thing.’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Evans,’ said the nurse, adopting a comforting, motherly tone towards this woman twice her age: her uniform, capability and the nervousness of her charge giving her perfect credibility as being at this moment the more mature and responsible of the two. ‘It’s only natural. But you’ve nothing to worry about. When the anaesthetist gets here he’ll explain it all to you; they’re very good now, you know, you’ll only have a very light anaesthetic and you’ll wake up feeling right as rain and it’ll all be over. I’ll have a lovely cup of tea waiting for you.’ She slipped a black blood pressure cuff over Juliet’s arm and closed the conversation by putting the ends of her stethoscope firmly into her ears as she began to pump up the pressure.
Juliet lay her head back on the couch and took a deep breath to try and calm herself, suddenly sensing, in a flash of insight, just how extraordinary this situation really was. Her husband was somewhere upstairs on his own and she was lying downstairs in an operating room surrounded by virtual strangers, and yet within the next few minutes both of them would attempt to extract from their bodies – or, in her case, have extracted – two small amounts of fluid that could change their lives for ever.
Dr Northfield turned out to be very young, very dark and very attractive. His short-sleeved blue surgical uniform made him look more like a doctor from an American television series than from a small Harley Street clinic and revealed tanned, thickly haired arms that set Juliet imagining a glorious future when the arms of her son would look just like this, and would carry her shopping, comfort her with manly hugs and one day hold her tiny grandchild.
His surprisingly deep voice snapped her out of her daydream.
‘Hello there, Mrs Evans. I’m Anthony Northfield and I’ll be collecting your eggs today. This is Dr Chang, the embryologist.’ Only then did Juliet notice a small, oriental man in a white coat hovering just behind Dr North-field. He nodded and smiled at her, then moved to sit at the table, on which stood a microscope, several glass dishes and the monitor screens.
Dr Northfield moved closer to Juliet. ‘I’ve a couple of little gadgets here I’d like to fix up first if that’s OK. Just relax back on the couch here and we’ll get you comfortable. All right?’
He smiled encouragingly down at her as she settled herself, then picked up what looked like a small finger stall with wires attached, which he fitted on to the end of her finger. ‘Just so’s we can keep an eye on the oxygen in your blood. All clever stuff here, you know!’
Another boyish grin accompanied the fixing of the blood pressure cuff on to Juliet’s upper arm once again, then young Dr Northfield sat back on a black plastic-covered stool and linked his hands in his lap. ‘So. Now we wait for the great man.’
Juliet assumed that he was referring to Professor Hewlett. An unpleasant thrill of panic suddenly shot through her bowels from nowhere at the thought of what was to come, and involuntarily she gave a small gasp.
‘All right, Mrs Evans?’ asked the nurse, leaning over and putting a comforting hand on her arm.
‘Yes, yes of course. Sorry, I’m not very good at all this,’ Juliet said again, and then she noticed the green boots that both the nurse and doctor were wearing. She suddenly pictured them sloshing ankle-deep through blood, and had to shake her head to rid herself of the unwelcome image.
‘You’ll be fine,’ smiled the nurse.
‘Nothing to it,’ added Dr Northfield, ‘it’ll be over before you know it. Just a gentle little doze and we’ll do all the work.’ He smiled at her, and Juliet felt a little calmer.
The door opened and a grey-haired man entered dressed in a short-sleeved blue tunic similar to the young doctor’s. On this larger, older figure it lost all connotations of American television and looked crumpled and well-worn, the material stretched tightly across a generous paunch and its modern styling thrown out by the pair of half-moon spectacles and dramatically untidy hair sported by the wearer. Juliet knew instinctively that this must be ‘the great man’ referred to earlier – no one could get away with looking so dishevelled and eccentric in such a setting without the power and kudos of status.
‘Right, let’s get the show on the road!’
He managed to exude bonhomie and pomposity at the same time in this one short sentence, and Juliet found herself taking an instant dislike to him.
‘Got any good veins there?’ He bent over and tapped at the back of her hand.
‘Mrs Evans, this is our anaesthetist, Dr Andrews. Don’t mind him – his bark’s worse than his bite.’
Juliet felt grateful for this thoughtful introduction, and determined to withhold her instant opinion of the grey-haired figure still tapping at her blood vessels and give herself a chance to like him. ‘I’m afraid I’m rather nervous,’ she volunteered.
‘Yes, my dear, I can see that.’ The grey head, that looked as if it belonged to someone just in from a violent storm, bent over her as the strong, calm fingers fiddled at her arm. ‘Not to worry, I’ll soon have you sleeping like a baby. But you’ll wake up crystal clear, I can guarantee that. Now then, I’m just going to – here we are now, just a little tiny prick and we’ll – good, good. Pass me that cannula would you, nurse? Thank you. Now, give a cough for me, would you? Good, and another one.’
‘I apologise, I’m not a very good patient, I – ow!’ Juliet jumped as she felt a sharp pain in her arm.
‘Just relax, you’re OK. Well done, all finished. Keep quite still now or it might fall out again.’
Dr Northfield called from across the room: ‘Just remember it was the anaesthetist that hurt you, not the gynaecologist!’ Juliet found this far funnier than she would have in any other circumstances. Being so utterly dependent on them for her health and future happiness she was disproportionately thankful for any demonstration of interest or concern from the two blue-uniformed doctors, even if it took the form of a patronising, schoolboy humour that coming from anyone else she would have dismissed as puerile and unfunny.
‘Having put the cannula in,’ Dr Andrews was quiet and far less jovial as he spoke half to