Heart's Command

by Meredith Webber

  He turned to head back to the building then hesitated.

  Except perhaps Cathy who was probably better not being moved any more at the moment.

  And old Chipper, in case his pelvis came apart again.

  Welfare people would take care of the kids…

  He sighed, and reversed his direction.

  Kirsten checked on Cathy’s progress, then, leaving orders to be called if there was any problem, she left Ken in charge while she visited her other patients. Mr Curtis first. The old man was up and dressed, sitting in a chair in the corner of his room, studying a paper he held upside down in his hands.

  ‘Good morning,’ Kirsten greeted him, and received a singularly sweet smile in response.

  Realising that this particular patient was unaffected by the army’s arrival, she stayed only long enough to be polite then moved on to the next room. The bed was neatly made, and the room empty. Perhaps Mr Graham had felt well enough to go upstairs and watch the children play. He could still manage the stairs on his good days, and as the small oxygen canister he could wear like a backpack was also missing she assumed he’d taken it to help him along the way.

  Young Peter Phelps was next. He was one of the town’s able-bodied men who had opted to stay and join the fight against the water. They were living in a scattering of houses on a hill on the opposite side of town, houses that still had the old septic systems. Knowing the worst was coming, they had planned ahead with provisions, a couple of tankers of water and a variety of communication devices in case the phones failed.

  Peter was sitting up in bed, staring out the window towards the tent city.

  ‘Watching the army set up?’ Kirsten asked him.

  ‘Wishing I was with them,’ Peter told her. He turned towards her and she caught the longing in his eyes. ‘I always wanted to join up, but Mum’s so nervous about it. You know what she’s like. You should have heard her go on about me staying on here instead of being evacuated.’

  ‘She worries about you,’ Kirsten said, putting the kindest interpretation she could on Marlene Phelps’s fussing.

  ‘Well, don’t you go telling her I’ve been in hospital, or she’ll say “I told you so” and I’ll never hear the end of it.’

  Kirsten promised not to say a word, but as Marlene was the town gossip, as well the town’s most panicky parent, she knew it wouldn’t remain a secret.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked the young man, lifting the chart from the foot of his bed and checking the last notation.

  ‘I’m much better,’ Peter replied, but the hectic flush on his cheeks gave the lie to the words. ‘At least my head’s not aching as much.’

  Kirsten accepted that statement thankfully. When she’d admitted Peter with a high temperature, violent headache and nausea, she’d feared some form of systemic infection, perhaps from an open wound.

  With the back road still open when he’d been admitted, she’d been able to send specimens of his blood, and fluid obtained from a spinal tap, to Vereton for testing. Infection and the various meningitis strains had been ruled out, and when his temperature had continued to fluctuate Kirsten had begun to wonder if it was a bite of some kind, possibly a spider bite, which had made his fever spike so badly.

  Whatever had caused the problem, he was certainly on the mend.

  ‘If I keep getting better at this rate, I’ll be able to rejoin the men tomorrow,’ he said, perhaps reading her relief in her face.

  ‘Not tomorrow, but in a day or two,’ she promised.

  ‘I suppose, now the army’s here, they won’t really need me,’ Peter added gloomily, and Kirsten wondered if perhaps the army might be more useful than it realised.

  If she could get Peter a job answering phones or doing something static, he’d feel as if he was helping and at the same time he’d be out of the weather while his strength returned.

  She’d have to speak to James about it. Better him than Harry Graham.

  She talked to Peter for a while longer, then heard the bell ring for lunch. Not that anyone dropped what they were doing to eat, but it let the skeleton staff know that meals were ready for delivery to the patients. Once their charges were fed, the staff took turns to duck away to the kitchen and relax for a few minutes.

  Kirsten walked back to the theatre and found that Mary Williams had taken over from Ken.

  ‘Just while he eats,’ Mary explained. ‘Cathy’s got used to having Ken with her, ordering her around.’

  ‘Makes me feel at home,’ Cathy explained. ‘Rob’s always telling me to do this and do that, especially when I’m on the tractor. Why he trusts me to drive the thing at all, I don’t know.’

  Kirsten checked the progress of the labour again, congratulated Cathy on the way she was handling the added discomfort of her awkward position, then went in search of Ken.

  ‘Not long now,’ she told him, meeting him outside the theatre.

  ‘Half an hour till things get serious,’ he said, and Kirsten didn’t argue, knowing he had an uncanny knack of judging the progress of each woman’s labour and was more likely to be right than she was.

  She poked her head into Chipper’s room to see if he’d been fed, and was hit by a pair of paper missiles this time. Harry Graham was sitting by the bed, young Anthony on his knee, and both the child and Chipper were looking guilty.

  ‘We were aiming at the door,’ Chipper said.

  ‘Bella asked me to bring Chipper his lunch,’ Anthony explained at the same time. ‘Me and sir.’

  Kirsten glanced at ‘sir’ and thought she caught a glimmer of a smile in his velvety eyes. The quiver she’d felt earlier reasserted itself, startling her with its intensity.

  It’s instinctual, nothing more, her head assured her body. Ignore it.

  ‘Good lad,’ she said to Anthony, ‘but now you’ve delivered it shouldn’t you slip through to the kitchen and have yours before Bella gets cross? I’ll take “sir” on the tour of inspection he’s so keen to have.’

  The glimmer died in Harry Graham’s eyes and Kirsten regretted her teasing. The man had looked almost friendly there for a moment—not to mention hunky!

  Although the less she considered the hunkiness the better, given her unexpected physical reactions to his presence.

  Harry realised he’d been well and truly hoist with his own petard. Until he’d come to terms with the pretty doctor’s most recent bombshell, the last thing he wanted was a ‘meet the patients’ tour.

  ‘Best go with her, lad,’ Chipper advised. ‘She might be small but she’s mighty fierce when crossed. You should have heard her go toe to toe with our local Member of Parliament who’d been foolish enough to bring the Minister for Health out to visit us.’

  Harry caught the pink flush in the ‘mighty fierce’ woman’s cheeks and again thought of old paintings. A womanly woman, that’s what she was, even in jeans, T-shirt and sneakers.

  ‘You don’t have to come,’ she told him, apparently sensing his reluctance.

  ‘No, no!’ he muttered, lifting Anthony off his knee and scooting the child towards the door.

  He stood up and crossed the room, then tried a smile in the hope he might feel better.

  ‘Changed your clothes again?’ she teased, the blue eyes sparkling as she looked up at him. They walked out into the passageway. ‘Actually, I shouldn’t torment you when you were kind enough to give Anthony a treat.’ She hesitated for a moment, then added, ‘And when I want to ask a favour.’

  Harry sensed danger. Sparkling blue eyes could be a man’s undoing, he warned himself.

  He stopped so he could look directly at her.

  ‘A favour?’

  She lifted her slim shoulders in a casual shrug but he guessed it was all show.

  ‘I’ll introduce you to Peter first,’ she explained, hesitantly at first and then rushing ahead as if she needed to get it all said as quickly as possible. ‘He’s a young patient, getting over a fever and not really well enough to be out doing physical work in the rain and fl
ood waters. But the inactivity is already bugging him and as he’s army-mad I wondered if you might have an inside job for him, answering phones, taking messages, counting paper-clips—anything.’

  She must know those eyes are mesmerising, Harry decided as once again the persuasive power of their blueness was turned on him.

  ‘Come and meet him,’ she added, before he could explain that he didn’t want a civilian messing with his paper-clips. And that wouldn’t be entirely fair either, as back on the base there were any number of civilian clerical assistants.

  The lad seemed reasonable enough, Harry decided after a brief visit with Peter Phelps. He’d pass the problem of finding him a job to James, but perhaps he’d find time to talk to Peter about a career in the army during the time he was here. Lads like him, who volunteered to stay behind, were what the army needed as recruits.

  ‘This next patient is Moira Allison.’ Dr McPherson interrupted his train of thought. ‘She has motor neurone disease, which is degenerative and incurable, and involves muscle wasting. The hospital has been the only home she’s known for the last few years so I didn’t want her fragile health disrupted by an enforced evacuation.’

  ‘But she’s already been moved from the real hospital to here,’ Harry argued, seeking ways to shore up his determination to get the patients and staff out of the danger zone. ‘However well you might have set it up, it isn’t a hospital.’

  His guide squared up to him again, all five feet four or five of her.

  ‘It is a hospital,’ she told him. ‘The building has been donated for that purpose. Once we get the insurance money from the old hospital to make a few more structural changes, this will not only be a hospital but will have hostel facilities for elderly townsfolk as well. Eventually we hope to put in a nursing home wing, too.’

  She might sound definite, Harry decided, but a wariness in her eyes told him it wasn’t quite as simple as she made out.

  He ran the words through his head again and found the flaw.

  ‘Wouldn’t the insurance money be paid to the state government? Don’t they own the hospital building?’

  Kirsten McPherson’s chin tilted up a notch.

  ‘They might think they do,’ she retorted, ‘but, in fact, Murrawarra Hospital was built originally by a church aid society, and staffed by nurses paid by the church. Later a local board took it over and there’s still a board who appoints staff and oversees the day-to-day management.’

  ‘But it’s considered a state government facility?’ Harry persisted. ‘Funded by the Health Department?’

  ‘In part.’ She made the concession reluctantly, then added, with grim honesty, ‘To a very large extent.’

  He had her where he wanted her and could have scoffed at her idea of getting insurance money, but for some reason getting the upper hand wasn’t as satisfying as he’d expected it to be, and he changed the subject.

  ‘Let’s visit Moira, shall we?’

  There were two women in the room they entered next, one made frail by illness, but with a faded prettiness that made Harry’s guts clench with pity for her.

  ‘Two visitors. How nice,’ the second woman said.

  She was small, and as wrinkled as the old apple he’d once left uneaten in the bottom of his schoolbag.

  ‘This is Moira Allison.’ The doctor introduced her patient first. ‘And her friend, Peggy Riley. Peggy helps Bella in the kitchen but she’s often to be found here with Moira. She claims she’s got “the sight” so always knows what Moira wants to say.’

  ‘And I do,’ Peggy assured Harry. Her wrinkles deepened as she winked at him. ‘Right now Moira’s thinking it’s about time we got some new talent in this town. She was always one who liked a handsome man!’

  Moira smiled at Harry to share the gentle jest, and he realised there might be truth in Peggy’s words. Moira Allison would have enjoyed the attention her beauty had brought her.

  The doctor, meanwhile, was examining a lunch tray, obviously abandoned practically untouched.

  ‘Well, we’d better move on,’ she said, and Harry reached out to shake Peggy’s hand then touch his fingers to Moira’s fragile bones.

  ‘I’ll visit you again, if I may,’ he said, and saw the answer in a slight movement of Moira’s head.

  ‘What happens with this…What did you call it—motor something disease?’ He’d asked the question too abruptly, disturbed by the woman’s plight.

  ‘Motor neurone,’ Kirsten told him. ‘The muscle wasting and weakness can begin in any muscle but generally, and in Moira’s case, it begins with the hands, shoulders and then lower limbs. We humans use a lot of muscles we’re not aware of—our heart’s a muscle, our stomachs need muscular contractions to digest food. The tongue—to chew and speak.’

  She guessed he’d been affected by seeing Moira and wondered if this hospital tour was a good idea.

  ‘She’s at that stage now?’ he asked, and she realised there wasn’t much this man would miss.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But there must be something you can do,’ he protested. ‘Tube-feed her, give her vitamins in liquid. Something!’

  She looked up at him and saw what looked like confusion in his eyes. He was trained to not accept defeat, so coming face to face with a reminder of man’s mortality would be shocking.

  ‘We’re coming to it,’ she agreed. ‘But the prognosis for people with the disease isn’t good. Moira’s had longer than a lot of people have had, perhaps because of the support she’s received from friends in the town—people like Peggy who volunteered to feed and bathe and sit with her. Under Health Department regulations, she shouldn’t have been in hospital long term.’

  Harry stared at Kirsten for a moment, apparently mulling over what she’d said, then he frowned and she leapt into speech again, anxious to defend the hospital and the town.

  ‘But that’s what towns like this are all about,’ she told him. ‘Community. People caring for each other. You might not understand that as the army probably has more regulations than the Health Department, but—’

  He held up his hands.

  ‘Hey! Hold it! I didn’t say a thing. I’m still way back with Moira and liquid food. Are you always so quick to argue? Leaping into the fray before you’ve been attacked?’

  Kirsten frowned at him.

  ‘I am doing that, aren’t I?’ she admitted ruefully, smiling at him and enjoying the sensation of letting go of her anger. ‘I guess I’ve been fighting for so long now that I see battles where none exist.’

  She paused as suspicion reared again. Perhaps this being nice was simply a new tactic. Perhaps smiling at him was a mistake.

  ‘But you came in fighting,’ she reminded him. ‘And you’re probably still planning on getting rid of us right now. Strategy number four hundred and three—lull the natives into a false sense of security.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I doubt I could lull you into such a state,’ he told her, his eyes teasing her gently. ‘What’s been happening in this town to put everyone so on edge? Why were you fighting the Minister for Health?’

  Kirsten sighed.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ she said, ‘and there’s no time to tell it now. If you want to meet the rest of the patients, we’ll have to hurry.’

  Harry heard the weight of weariness in the sigh and wondered about the battles this diminutive doctor had been fighting. He found himself not wanting to add to her problems, not wanting to meet the people he’d been planning to evacuate.

  ‘Look, you’ve got more than enough on your plate right now. Perhaps later? Does your day become less busy once they’ve all had dinner?’

  She studied him for a moment as if trying to read his face, then nodded.

  ‘Later would be better,’ she admitted, then she grinned. ‘After all, you’ll be able to do a full head count by then. Cathy’s baby should have arrived.’

  He walked away, thinking about Cathy’s baby—new life—and Moira Allison—so close to death—the
n his mind threw up an image of the doctor’s face—her cheeky grin made lights like diamonds sparkle in her lovely eyes. A quickening of his pulse reminded him of the contrariness of attraction. Not that he could allow himself to be diverted by attraction. And a pretty woman like her was sure to be married—or paired off in some way.

  He found himself wondering about the man and whether he held his own in the constant battles they would surely have, then shook his head and reminded himself that he was here to work, not fraternise with the natives. Back to the tent city—that’s where he’d head. Find out what was happening. Forget about Kirsten McPherson and her assorted patients.

  Particularly the patient he was pleased he hadn’t met.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘WHERE’S Captain Woulfe?’ Harry asked the clerk who was bent over charts on a table in his office.

  ‘He’s set up a post in the council chambers in the town itself, sir,’ the soldier replied. ‘Shall I raise him for you?’

  Harry considered phoning his second in command then decided it would be better to see him.

  ‘I’ll go down.’

  The soldier rushed away, presumably to find Harry’s driver, who was doubtless getting away with doing as little work as possible. Harry walked through to the motor pool, where he wasn’t surprised to discover his small friend once again in residence.

  The grease-stained youngster was perched on a ladder, peering down into the engine of one of the big trucks that had brought in supplies. An equally greasy mechanic was explaining the workings of a fuel pump as he detached the ‘expletive’ thing from its moorings.

  ‘Watch your language in front of the youngster, soldier,’ Harry said, but quietly so the man knew it was more a suggestion than a reprimand. ‘And don’t you get in the way, Anthony,’ he told the child. ‘I’ll come back and check on you later.’

  But the scamp was down the ladder in a shot.

  ‘I heard them call for your car, sir,’ he said. ‘Can I come with you, can I, sir? No one would let me go down to see the town, but I’d be safe with you, wouldn’t I?’