A CLOSE SHAVE.

(A continuation from my previous Malcolm/Sam story)

Chapter One.

Back in London, life fell into a pleasant hum of activity. The Memoirs were published, to critical acclaim and Malcolm had been very busy with book signings and press meetings, interviews and photo opportunities. A few feathers had been well and truly ruffled by some of the chapters in the book, a few truths had been told concerning certain individuals, but Malcolm didn't much care. He'd told the truth, and that was all that mattered.

Sam kept herself in the background as much as possible. She did not seek the limelight and preferred to support her husband from the wings, and concentrate her efforts on their baby son.
He knew she was always there for him and their moments alone together were, to him especially, the most precious.
During their working time together, Sam had always been very quick to sense when there was something amiss with Malcolm. If he had been particularly worried about some Government legislation or some departmental cock-up, she was on the ball. Her 'spidey sense' told her that he was chewed up about something now.
During their time in Italy, this little tingling feeling she experienced at those times, had gradually diminished and she relaxed more, as he relaxed. Malcolm was truly happy, of that she was sure.
Together, Mr and Mrs Tucker were a formidable team. Unvanquished, indomitable.

Sam couldn't put her finger on the exact moment when that worrying tingle returned.

It had been a particularly demanding week for Malcolm, meetings and more meetings, hurried lunches and pressing the flesh. He had been travelling a good deal. Nothing he hadn't been used to in his previous incarnation, but, for some reason Sam sensed a weariness about him, a discomfiture, that she'd thought not to see again.
She tackled him about it in bed that night. Lying snuggled against him as he idly stroked her hair, she asked him if there was anything wrong.
'I'm fine,' he said, with a sigh, 'just a bit tired is all.'
Deciding not to press him, she let it go, but she could not shake that little niggle at the back of her mind.

The talk was all of Baby Tucker's christening...they both agreed they wanted to make a day of it...push the boat out. A few close friends and family were invited, Malcolm's sister would travel down from Scotland and Sam persuaded Malcolm to make a long overdue phone call to Jamie McDonald, and ask him to stand as Godfather. To say his oldest friend and colleague was honoured, was an understatement, Jamie was over the moon, and the call ended with much laughter and bridges, previously burned, had been mended.

In a couple of weeks Malcolm's hectic schedule would be easing and Sam had to admit, she would be relieved when the furore died down. Her concern over her husband remained undiminished, he was hiding something from her, she was convinced of it. A couple of times in the preceding few days she thought she caught him wincing, as if in pain. She had woken in the night on one occasion to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, seemingly in distress. He had, of course, dismissed it as just a muscle twinge, but he didn't sound as if he believed it, and neither did she.

Chapter Two.

Malcolm Tucker had come late to fatherhood it was true, most, including himself, never thought he'd be a parent at all.
Sam was never in any doubt of his worthiness, but bets had been placed in Government circles as to what a mess he might make of it.
The simple truth was, that Malcolm was inordinately proud of his son. There were no lengths to which he would not go to protect him. His love for the little boy was total. His joy at seeing him emerge into the world, mingled with his adoration for his wife and what she accomplished in giving birth to him, were beyond measure. On several occasions Sam discovered him kneeling beside the cot, just watching the little chest rise and fall. He was a Dad, and there was nothing else he needed or wanted.
He was determined to do this right, no absent father, he. No! HIS son would have a proper Dad, it would not be like his own childhood, where drink and abuse were the norm. This child would grow safe and happy and loved.

It was the Thursday before the Christening Sunday. Malcolm had been up in the night and felt queasy. He had a gnawing pain in his stomach and his back hurt.
Little did Sam know, but he had experienced the same symptoms off and on during the preceding few months.
'Monday morning, after the Christening, you should make an appointment at the surgery,' she told him sternly.
He'd brushed it off, saying he'd be be fine, he'd take some Gaviscon or something. It was probably something he ate.

There was so much to do. Cake, bunting, food to prepare, spare room to set in readiness, and the demands of a hungry baby to satisfy. Sam made lists, she ticked off items as completed...she was nothing if not organised. Malcolm's sister, Nancy, arrived on the Saturday. It was all go.
Malcolm was listless and quiet. He seemed somehow distant. There were times throughout that Saturday, when Sam would notice he was missing. Searching the house, she found him, leaning against the cot, his jaw set, face tense. Deep in thought.
Coming to stand behind him, she encircled his waist with both arms, leaning into his back. He placed his hands over hers, still watching their child.
'You two are the best things that've ever happened to me,' he whispered, so as not to wake the sleeper.
'You've saved me.'
His breath seemed to hitch and Sam held him tight.
'Malcolm, what's wrong,' she said, 'please tell me.'
He turned to face her and brushed his lips against her forehead, then her cheek and finally captured her mouth in a deep and loving kiss.
'You know I love you, my Sam,' his voice was almost gone,
'More than you could possibly imagine, and, whatever happens, I always will.'
'Whatever happens?' she answered, 'what do you mean?'
'Oh nothing,' he shrugged, 'just a figure of speech!'
Before Sam could think of what to say next, he broke from her embrace and hurried out of the nursery, mumbling something about putting the kettle on.

Sunday dawned bright and sunny. Everyone was swinging into action. Managing to assemble everyone at the church, suited and booted, at 10am would be a challenge.

Malcolm did not feel well. He did not feel well at all. His whole body ached, he felt nauseous and his stomach was tender to the slightest touch. Dressing had been a nightmare. His hands shook, fingers fumbling over his buttons and tie.
The thought of food was out of the question, a few sips of tea were all he could manage. Somehow he contrived to hide all this from the others, although the effort was enormous. If he could just make it through today, he would see his GP the following morning. Just today, a few more hours, that was all he needed.

Jamie held his Godson proudly, as the Vicar doused the cherubic forehead and named him, James Alexander. Sam positively glowed with pleasure, and Nancy dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, saying tearily,
'I never thought I'd see the day!'
Malcolm leaned heavily against the pew. His teeth clenched against the searing pain that now wracked him. A sheen of perspiration gathered on his brow and top lip.

Back home, after the service, he stumbled into the kitchen, light headed, overcome with nausea. Baby James was playing with Auntie Nancy. Sam and Jamie entered the kitchen side by side, giggling over the badly fitting wig the vicar had been wearing. Suddenly the turn of the Earth seemed to falter, to move in slow motion.
Together they watched, horrified, yet unable to move, as Malcolm, deathly white and trembling, swayed, clutching vainly at the side of the sink. As he started to slide downwards he vomited, copious amounts of dark blood poured from his mouth and down his nose.
The look of abject terror on her husband's face would haunt Sam for months to come.

Sam was frozen, rooted to the spot. Jamie, however, rushed to the side of his friend. Catching him, and allowing him to sink gently to the floor.
'Sam...call a fucking ambulance! NOW!' he screamed.

Chapter Three.

In a trance-like state Sam sat on a plastic chair in the hospital corridor. Her mind a turmoil of thoughts. She'd known something wasn't right, how had he hidden it from her? Why had he not told her if he wasn't feeling well? What would happen now? Would she lose him? She thought of Baby James, at home, now being cared for by Auntie Nancy. She thought of herself, without him. They had been so happy, why had this happened? Why? Why? Why?

Jamie, face pale and taut, blood still staining the front of his shirt, returned to her side with two paper cups of water. He placed them on a small table and sat down heavily on the seat beside her. Putting his arm around her shoulder, she leaned into him. Tears welled up and she buried her face into his chest and sobbed.
The hours had ticked by, with no word. Feeling Jamie nudge her from her torpor, she saw the grim, weary face of the Doctor, as he walked purposefully towards them.
'Mrs Tucker? Shall we go in here so we can have a chat?'
Sam clutched Jamie's hand tight to steady herself, as they were ushered into an interview suite. She trembled and suddenly felt very nauseous, and whispered to him to fetch the water. Sipping it nervously and braced herself for whatever was to come.
'Your husband has suffered a perforated stomach ulcer,' the Doctor's voice was gentle, 'it was a close shave, and we had to operate immediately, but he was lucky, and if that continues, he should make a full recovery.'
Well, she hadn't seen that one coming. She'd always thought, that if anything would kill Malcolm it would be a heart attack, or a stroke. Presumably this was the result of years of high stress, irregular eating and sleeping habits, too many Fanta's and satsumas!
A whole load of medical jargon followed, which Sam neither really listened to, or took on board.
She swallowed thickly,
'Can I see him?'
'Just for a while, he should be awake now, but he needs rest.'
The Doctor showed her into the dimly lit side room.

Malcolm lay in the bed propped up with pillows. His white hospital gown making him look even more pallid and vampiric than he probably was. A blood transfusion dripped via an IV into the back of one hand and a monitor, attached to pads on his chest, beeped reassuringly. One elegant finger hooked to a pulse counter. His steel grey curls were flattened to his head with perspiration and his eyelids flickered as he slept.
The swish of the door stirred him and his heavy lids struggled to open. His eyes were red rimmed, but clear and bright.
Looking down at him as he lay there, so helpless, such a rush of love tugged at her chest, Sam could hardly breathe. Reaching for his fingers, the feel of his cool skin, against her own, she gave a little squeeze.
'Hey!' he tried a weak smile.
'You bloody bastard Malcolm Tucker!' she hissed, 'you frightened the bloody life out of me, don't you ever do that to me again!'
She wasn't really angry with him, just very, very scared. Her emotional reaction and relief that he was alive, palpable.
'I'm sorry!' his voice was barely audible, 'I thought I was a gonna there!'
Jamie's head appeared round the doorway.
'You stupid old fucker!' he grinned,walking to the other side of the bed, 'what the hell did you go and do that fer!'
Malcolm tried a laugh, but stopped abruptly when a stab of pain hit him.
'Sorry, I know I'm a wanker!' he breathed out carefully.
Seeing his discomfort, Jamie looked at Sam,
'We should go...let you rest.' He touched Sam's shoulder and slipped out into the corridor.
Sam leaned over and brushed her mouth against Malcolm's pale lips.
'I'll come back later,' she whispered, 'when I've seen that little Jamie's alright.'
'Ah, so we're calling him Little Jamie now are we? Not James...' Malcolm arched an eyebrow in mock indignation.
'After today, yes, I think it's the least we can do,' she smiled, 'Jamie saved your life.'
'Great,' Malcolm groaned, 'he'll never let me forget that one!'
'You get some rest now and I'll see you in a few hours.'
Malcolm's eyes slid shut, and he sighed, his face relaxing.

Chapter Four.

Over the next few days her husband began, slowly, to mend.
For Sam though, the feeling of nausea didn't leave her. Her sleep pattern was broken, and she woke feeling sick almost every day. She put it down to the shock of Malcolm's illness.
Becoming the model Godfather, despite ribbing from Malcolm about finding a horses head in the bed, Jamie stepped in to help look after Little Jamie, so that Sam could visit the hospital, he also volunteered to fetch his friend home, when he was sufficiently recovered, to save Sam the hassle. His help was invaluable.

It was on an evening, a week after returning home, that Malcolm finally confessed to Sam his fears about his illness.
Entwined together beneath the sheets, he felt he could never get close enough, never hold her tight enough, never find the words to tell her how much she meant to him, then, out it all came, in a torrent of emotion.
'I thought I had stomach cancer,' he began, his voice almost gone, 'my Dad had it, and my symptoms were the same. I was 15, Sam, my Dad died a horrible and painful death. I thought that was going to happen to me.'
'But, why didn't you tell me?' she cried,' we could have faced it...somehow...together. Promise me you'll never shut me out like that again.'
'I promise,' he started to weep,' I was petrified Sam, completely petrified. The thought of dying, of being lost to you and Little Jamie...'
His voice faltered and he broke down utterly. She held him to her as he sobbed like a small child. Shoulders heaving, nose running, mouth twisted in anguish. He cried until no more tears would come, clinging to her like a drowning man.
Gently, Sam hushed him, cradling him, rocking him, just as she did Little Jamie. Then they were kissing; hungrily, desperately. Now caressing, loving. Rejoicing in each other, thankful for what they had. It had been a Close Shave, but they had got through it.

Epilogue.

Malcolm was up early, showered and shaved. From the kitchen came the sounds of playing breakfast trains as he spoon fed Little Jamie.
Sam felt lethargic, still a little nauseous and bloated. A sudden thought jolted her from her reverie. Jumping from the bed, she went to the bathroom and started rummaging in the cabinet. Some ten minutes later there was a crash and an audible squeak. Malcolm bolted up the stairs two at a time, wondering what on earth was wrong.
He was met with the sight of his beautiful wife, standing, stunned by the bedroom mirror, backlit in the early morning sunshine, a positive pregnancy test clutched in her hand.