Finally George Mortimer manages to politely extricate himself from my limpet-like embrace.
Against the embarrassing backdrop of me thanking him incessantly, he reaches for the hand of the small girl and together they melt back into the crowd.
The onlookers are dissipating fast, keen to resume their day at the park now that the drama has passed.
‘Your son is going to be fine,’ the tall paramedic tells me kindly. ‘We’ll need to take him to hospital just to get him checked over. You’ll be able to take him home when he’s been given the all-clear.’
I feel reassured by this. My hands are still trembling from the realisation of how badly today could have turned out. They’re going to make absolutely sure my boy is one hundred per cent fine.
‘We’ll wait for you at home,’ Steph murmurs, and with the minimum of fuss, she leads Harrison off to a nearby refreshment stand.
I travel to the City Hospital in the back of the ambulance with one of the paramedics. I hold Kane’s hand, never taking my eyes from his pale little face.
He’s still got an oxygen mask on and can’t really speak, but I make up for that by rabbiting on non-stop about all the great things we’re going to do and see and…
‘Take a breath, Darcy, or I’ll be putting an oxygen mask on you too,’ the paramedic jokes, winking at Kane.
‘Sorry.’ I give her a little smile but feel my cheeks burning.
I’ve always got through the drama of life by vomiting out words, throwing meaningless promises about the future out there to anyone who’ll listen. Fantasising.
I did it when Joel died, even after I found out how he’d deceived us.
In the days after his death, I ran myself ragged planning camping holidays with the boys, a new career, moving away from the area… The list went on as I tried in vain to drown out the noise of the unspeakable truth I had discovered just before he died. All my ridiculous little stories of how everything would be just fine.
Looking back, I can see now it was the manic stage before the full meltdown and it didn’t work, of course. Didn’t make the terrible deeds of the man I’d loved so much go away.
What he did cut so deep, even now, I’m not sure I’ll ever quite get over it.
As Kane has arrived at the hospital by ambulance, we skip the chaos of A&E and he’s whisked through to see a doctor.
Without the oxygen mask, he’s looking a little more like himself. Not quite as pale now, and there’s even a ghost of a smile when the doctor jokingly starts to inspect a non-existent foot injury before listening to his chest and taking various observations.
‘I don’t need to tell you he had a close shave.’ The doctor turns to me, releasing his stethoscope to hang around his neck again. ‘I think we can safely say this attack was brought on by a combination of too much vigorous exercise, overexcitement and eating a dry biscuit, which brought on a coughing fit.’ He wags his finger at Kane in mock disapproval. ‘Don’t ever leave the house without your inhaler, young man. Even if it means there’s no room for your toy car collection. Understand?’
Kane grins and nods, self-consciously patting the arms of the child-size wheelchair he’s sitting in.
Once they discharge him, I insist we’ll be fine making our own way back to the exit. I just need some space to get my head straight. It’s quite a walk, so we keep the wheelchair, and Kane seems to enjoy the novelty of being pushed through the glossy pale-green corridors, the drama of the asthma attack already fading fast.
But the trauma is still very much with me. My heart continues to race too fast and when I used the bathroom on the treatment ward, my cheeks looked bright pink in the mirror and were hot to the touch.
None of that stuff is important now, of course. Kane is fine, and that’s all that matters.
George Mortimer’s face fills my mind again. His confidence and natural authority were so impressive, and other people there felt it too, eager to carry out his instructions. Aside from that, he was a very attractive man. Although I’d never admit it to Steph, the whole package of this guy adds up to a God-like figure in my mind.
I can never repay him for how he helped my son today. Nothing I could do would come close.
It feels like I’ve pushed the wheelchair for miles, but finally I spot a sign for the exit.
‘I’ll call us a cab and we can go straight home, sweetie. You must be exhausted.’ I ruffle Kane’s short sandy hair, the exact colour and wiry texture as his father’s. ‘I think an evening of banana milkshake, pizza and a movie might be in order. Is that OK with you?’
He twists his head around and smiles. He’s still being very quiet, for Kane, but that’s to be expected.
He’s experienced breathless episodes before, especially if he’s been particularly active or the pollen count is high outside. But a few puffs of his inhaler and he’s been good as new. I’ll need to take him to our GP to confirm whether the asthma has somehow got even worse without us noticing.
The whole episode at the play park must have scared him witless, as it did the rest of us.
As I steer the wheelchair to the right, following the exit signs, a large arrow and signage to the left catches my eye. In bold black letters are the words Urology Dept.
I take a sharp left turn instead.
‘The exit is that way, Mum.’ Kane points up at the sign and then to the right.
‘I know, but the urology department is down here. It’s where George Mortimer works, the man who helped you today.’
‘But he won’t be here now,’ Kane says patiently. ‘He’s still at the park with his little girl.’
I know that. I just want to see the place he works, that’s all.
‘We can bring him in a thank-you card or something. I just need to see where we’ll come to drop it off.’
Kane doesn’t reply. I know he’s exhausted, and I will get him home, but a two-minute detour won’t do any harm. He’s too young to realise just how close he came to disaster today. Too young to fully appreciate what George Mortimer did for him.
But I’m under no such illusions.
Fifty yards later, we stand in front of double doors bearing a large Urology sign. I push one open and a passing porter kindly assists us through into the entrance area of the ward.
‘Can I help you?’ A nurse in her thirties wearing a navy-blue uniform and holding a clipboard turns as we enter.
I tell her briefly what happened at the park with Dr Mortimer, and her face lights up as she winks at Kane.
‘Ah, yes, that sounds just like Mr Mortimer. He’s a consultant surgeon, you see, so we address him as Mister, not Doctor.’
‘I see.’ Typical of the man, I think, to understate his status to the paramedics. ‘I wanted to know if it would be OK to drop him in a thank-you card, maybe tomorrow. We’re so grateful.’
‘Of course!’ She beams. ‘He’ll love that, I’m sure. I’m on duty tomorrow, so I might see you then.’
She turns to the secure ward doors and wafts a lanyard in front of the security pad. I manoeuvre the wheelchair back around in the limited space and head towards the exit again.
‘Look, Mum, there’s Dr George.’ Kane points to a row of A4-size photographs on the wall, identifying all the urology ward staff from the senior consultant to the cleaner.
Next to the senior consultant urologist, a Mr Dharval Ratan, is George. He looks so effortlessly handsome in his photograph. Slightly tousled brown hair, strong jaw, and the same easy smile he bestowed on me this afternoon, when I thanked him so profusely.
Under my breath, I whisper his title. ‘Mr George Mortimer DM FRCS (Urol.) – Consultant Urologist.’
Impressive. Just like the man himself.
Kane turns around in the wheelchair as I start rooting around in my handbag.
‘What are you doing?’ he says irritably. ‘Can’t we just go home now?’
He’s tired and I’ll have him home in no time. It’s just that I have to do something first.
‘Yes, in a minute. I just…’ I pull out my phone and take a snap of George’s photograph before slipping it back in the top pocket of my denim jacket. ‘There, all done. Let’s go.’
As I wrestle the wheelchair back through the double doors, I feel a warm glow inside my chest.
In a strange way, it feels like I have a little piece of George Mortimer for myself now, right next to my heart.