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it, burying her wet face in the blanket covering his loins. “John,” she said. “It’s Heather.”
    John’s breathing sounded laboured; his eyes were open but stared vacantly. She heard Macnamara say “A seat,” and, still clinging to John’s hand, rose to sit on a small hard-backed chair.
    She wiped her face with her sleeve. Raising herself, she bent over to kiss his brow. It was hot, soaking. She sat back again, holding his hand and squeezing it gently. An unnatural pink spot blemished each of his paler-than-usual cheeks.
    Did he know it was her? The unblinking eyes gave nothing away and his wet hand was limp. Did he mumble something? She held her ear close to the mask but couldn’t pick up anything coherent. “John, darling. It’s me, Heather. Can you hear me?”
    No visible reaction. Macnamara’s voice intruded. “Your man’s delirious, with a high fever. He rambles, but it doesn’t mean he’s conscious.”
    Surely John was dying. She relinquished his hand and stood up to face Macnamara. “He looks very poorly.”
    â€œHe’s on the critical list, but sure your man’s a fighter.”
    John was a fighter all right, but was this his last battle? Her eyes blurred.
    â€œMrs Chisholm, we’ll leave you alone with your husband a few minutes.” Macnamara motioned to the nurse and they moved away.
    Alone at the bedside, she sat down again, took John’s hand and kept pressing it, but she couldn’t feel any reaction. She kept talking to him, but got no apparent response. He mumbled again, but her best effort to make sense of this left her feeling more desperate. There was nothing she could do. John was dying.
    She heard movement behind her. Macnamara. She bent over to kiss John’s brow, then followed the Charge Nurse in silence back along the ward.
    He stopped outside the door of a room partitioned from the ward. “Come into my office a minute, Mrs Chisholm. There’s something I must ask you.”
    She followed him into the office. They remained standing.
    â€œSure, your husband has a fair chance of survival. This last hour, the fever abated a little.” He coughed and looked away. “But just in case – what’s his religion?”
    What? “Why?” she demanded.
    â€œWell, if he’s Catholic and if it looks like he won’t make it, we’ll –”
    No. “You’d better not let him die,” she yelled, advancing on the man. “You’ve made him ill. You cure him, or –!” Macnamara was staring down at her.
    â€œAll right boss?” Behind her. She swung round and collided into a huge solid white-coated figure. “Steady, Miss,” the man growled. She was a helpless rag doll under the powerful hands, one on each shoulder, that restrained her.
    She collapsed onto the chair Macnamara pushed toward her. Her eyes swam. She’d lose her beloved John. And even her temper – which she never lost – wasn’t under her control.
    She calmed and dried her face with a tissue. “Sorry.” She addressed Macnamara’s question. “He’s Roman Catholic – though I think he’s lapsed. We’ve not been to a church for ages.” Now she was regretting that.
    â€œThanks, and I’m sorry for upsetting you.” Macnamara looked haggard. “I’ll let our RC chaplain know right away. Our Church of England man called earlier and – because your husband was unconscious – gave some kind of blessing.”
    â€œThe last rites,” Heather murmured. Confirmation of her fears.
    â€œI don’t think so. Sure it’s only Catholic priests give the last rites.”
    She had a question. “How did John get pneumonia? He didn’t have it when he went into Springwell.”
    â€œI don’t know, as he went to our Admissions Ward first.” He hesitated. “Your husband might have had