As she rolls back, a theatre nurse, whose ID is lost somewhere under her theatre pyjamas, swabs her belly, then spreads drapes around the area where GR will make his incision. Callie then helps her erect a drape so the woozy Wendy doesn’t have to see the whole op in gory detail. Saves Paul watching it, too.
But I move away from Paul so I can watch because, for me, every time a new baby is lifted into the world, the thrill is indescribable.
CHAPTER TWO
WENDY is sutured up, then transferred to a single-bed ward, the tiny baby boy in a crib beside her. I trail along behind, fascinated as ever by the miracle of a newborn infant, bending over the crib, blinking back a tear as his tiny hand fists around my finger. Then a ‘hrmph’ of a cough alerts me to the fact the boss is waiting.
Back to the plane. The boss is obviously not a man who hangs around praising the parents or admiring their joint production.
Fair enough, I can handle that. In fact, it’s a good thing as my soppiness over babies seems to be getting worse rather than better with exposure. I refuse to believe it’s to do with ticking clocks…
We clamber aboard. Note to self—always wear trousers of some kind. The person who invented miniskirts didn’t think about the wearer having to get in and out of small planes. Michael buries his head in his book and Dave takes us up, smooth and easy. Gregor waits until we level out, then turns to me.
‘Tomorrow we go to Creamunna and Grandchester. You and I run in tandem—one in Theatre and one consulting. Tomorrow you’ll do the consulting and I’ll do the ops.’
‘Is that how you normally work?’ I only ask because he’s obviously explaining this for my benefit so the least I can do is show an interest. Besides, thinking about work stops me thinking about other things—like the effect he has on me.
‘Not all the time. In fact, I do a lot of the consulting because I like to give my registrars the opportunity for as much surgical work as possible.’
‘So why are we swapping roles tomorrow?’
Can’t help myself, can I?
‘Because the patients you see tomorrow will be the ones you’ll operate on the next time we visit those towns—which in these two towns will be in a month,’ he responds, frowning as if to impress on me that this is serious stuff. ‘I work this way whenever a new registrar starts so at least your first lot of surgical patients will have met you before they see you in Theatre.’
‘Surely all consults don’t lead to Theatre? Don’t some patients have non-surgical problems?’
‘The majority of non-surgical things can be handled by the local GP,’ he explains, ‘but you’ll be seeing post-op patients in each town, as well as consulting with those who have problems that need surgery. Michael and I, meanwhile, will be doing one or maybe two ops—three or four if they’re minor.’
‘What kind of surgery can you do?’
He leans a little closer towards me and frowns as if he doesn’t understand the question.
‘Most gynaecological surgery, though I send cancer patients to a base hospital on the coast because they’ll need ongoing treatment we can’t provide. Apart from that, we do pretty much everything.’
‘I was thinking of equipment. Would small country hospitals have laparoscopy equipment?’
‘Some do, some don’t. When the FOG service was extended, service clubs and other organisations in a lot of the towns we visit got together to raise money specifically for that one piece of equipment. Also, people are used to travelling long distances for medical services, so if they need an exploratory examination they’re usually willing to go to a town that has the facilities. They’re very adaptable—country people.’
Well, der! I want to say, but don’t. See, I can hold my tongue at times! He doesn’t appear to have anything further to say, so I turn to look out the window at the flat red-brown earth below the plane, seeing the dots that I know are stunted trees, the occasional hill poking up towards the sky.
But no scenery can diminish the man’s presence in the close confines of the plane’s cabin, and the earlier conversations about his dislike of women colleagues nibbles away beneath my skin like a burrowing insect.
So it’s hardly surprising that, a couple of hours later, I blurt out the question that’s bugging me. Really blurt it out…
I’m sitting in his office at the hospital, studying the schedule presented to me by Georgia. I’m actually sitting in what I assume is his chair, behind what I know is his desk, but only because I needed to spread out the map Georgia has given me with the schedules, and this is the only clear space I can find.
‘Comfy?’ he says, entering so quietly I don’t hear him, though he’s definitely wearing shoes this time.
I leap about six inches into the air and, being caught in the wrong, go straight on the attack.
‘Why don’t you like women registrars?’
The dark face stills for a moment, then his lips do the quirky thing that might almost be a smile if you are fast enough to catch it.
‘I have nothing against women registrars in general,’ he tells me, dropping into one of the visitors’ chairs on the other side of his desk. ‘In fact, I think women doctors do an excellent job.’
‘Just not within spitting distance of you.’
I’m usually not this aggressive, but something about GR Prentice rattles my cage. Even when he’s not touching me.
‘Just not in remote areas,’ he says, amending my words. ‘Or, to be more precise, not in O and G registrar positions in remote areas.’
‘Heaven forbid you should be anything less than precise,’ I mutter, then wade into the argument again. ‘Do you have a reason for this prejudice or is it simply a personal quirk on your part?’
A dark eyebrow rises.
‘Do you speak to all your superiors this way?’
In other words, back off, Hillary! I know that’s what he’s saying, but I can’t let it go.
‘No, I don’t, but it seems to me we’ll make a more effective team if I understand where you’re coming from on this subject. I mean, if it’s something simple like you being allergic to perfume, I can assure you I don’t wear it when I’m working because any number of patients could also have allergies.’
I try a smile. ‘See, we’ve sorted that one out already.’
No answering smile, not even a lip quirk. Instead, he studies his watch as if it might tell him what to say next, then looks up at me.
‘It’s late, you haven’t had time to unpack, let alone shop or order a meal from the kitchen. Why don’t you pop over to your quarters, grab a quick shower, and I’ll buy you dinner? There’s a really good Chinese restaurant in town, an assortment of pubs that do food, or a steakhouse. You can take your pick, and we’ll talk over dinner.’
This is where a real smart-mouth should come into her own, but do I have an answer? No way! I’m flummoxed, gob-smacked, bamboozled, flabbergasted—all of the above?—and I sit there like a big ninny, probably opening and closing my mouth in the manner of a dying fish. Not a pretty picture, I’m sure you’ll agree.
‘You’ll have to go now if you want a shower before we eat,’ he adds calmly. ‘I like to be home by ten to watch the weekend sports round-up.’
I peer across his desk at him, certain he can’t possibly be a reincarnation of my grandfather. There are probably a lot of men in the world who consider their life isn’t complete without a final evening viewing of the weekend sports round-up programme.
‘Go! Scat!’ he says, standing up and making shooing movements towards the door. ‘Quite apart from anything else, I need to get at my desk. I’ll meet you at my car in fifteen minutes.’
I scat—or should that be skit? Scatter? He’s certainly left my brain feeling scattered.
Back in the nurses’ quarters, the boxes and suitcases are still in the same place—no good fairy has come and put things away for me. And I haven’t rung Gran!
Well, the boss can wait a few extra minutes. I find my own mobile, not the work one, and press
her preset number, at the same time hauling the case I’m pretty sure has clean clothes in it into one of the cells. With a single bed, wardrobe-dressing-table combination and chair already in there, the suitcase and I take up all the remaining space. No room to open it.
I drag it back out onto the veranda and open it there, digging through it for something cool and comfortable as the heat of the day still lingers. Ha! The long singlet dress which I love because it’s a soft cotton knit and is comfy to wear, and if the dark green colour makes my eyes look greener, that’s a bonus, isn’t it? Pete loved it, too, I think because he could slide the straps off my shoulders and the whole thing would slip down to the floor. Ow! A brief spasm of pain for the loss of Pete.
Who’s Pete, you ask? He’s the man I really should have married—really thought I would marry, in fact. But things didn’t turn out that way and right now—
A voice is yelling in my ear.
‘Who’s there? Who is it? Is that you, Hillary?’
‘Yes, Gran. Sorry. I’m trying to unpack at the same time. They’ve put me in the old nurses’ quarters here at Bilbarra and the rooms are so small I have to unpack on the veranda. Anyway, I’m just ringing to let you know I’ve arrived safe and sound.’
She can’t possibly have heard the ‘safe and sound’ bit because she’s talking again—positively shrieking down the phone.
‘Bilbarra? You didn’t tell me you were going to Bilbarra! You said “way out Woop Woop” but didn’t mention Bilbarra.’
OK, so I didn’t mention the name of the town! I lift the phone away from my ear and peer suspiciously at it as Gran’s tirade continues. Now she’s going on about the nurses’ quarters. Does she think this a come-down for a doctor?
‘It’s only for six months so what does it matter, Gran?’ I ask, when she pauses for breath.
‘Of course it matters. I’ll tell you when I get there. I’ll leave in the morning.’
She hangs up before I can ask more questions, and as I am now down to ten minutes before I’m due to meet GR at the car, I can’t phone her back.
Clutching the singlet dress and clean underwear in one hand and my toothbrush bag in the other, I head for the shower. I must be tireder than I realised—thinking Gran said she was coming to Bilbarra…
I make it in the allotted fifteen minutes, but only because I’m a minimal-care kind of person. I’ve lived in subtropical climates long enough to know make-up is a waste of time and effort, not to mention money. In this weather, it slides off the face almost as soon as it’s applied, so why bother? I do the moisturising thing and darken my eyelashes with mascara—I’m a pale-skinned redhead and they need help!—then slide some lip-gloss over my lips, but that’s it.
GR—I can’t even think of him as Gregor yet—gives a nod, which I assume is an acknowledgment of my punctuality, then his gaze slides down the long lines of the singlet dress, coming to rest on my sandals for a moment, before returning to my face.
‘The pavements out here can be rough,’ he says—unmistakable disapproval of the three-inch heels on my footwear. But when you’re five-five in a world that seems made up of giants, you do your best! ‘You wouldn’t want to turn an ankle.’
‘Is that a cute way of reminding me I nearly fell over earlier?’
He looks surprised.
‘Did you? I don’t remember that. And I rarely do cute. I tend to say what I think and I was simply stating a fact. Where there are footpaths in Bilbarra, they are usually rough.’
I take in the footpath stuff, but I’m really thinking about the first part of his reply. Whatever he was doing to me—the electric zapping—must be totally unconscious, and definitely one-sided, or he’d remember grabbing my arm.
I slide past him—he’s holding the door for me again, something the non-feminist part of me appreciates—and into the car, thinking about the dangers attached to the unconscious delivery of electrical impulses. The man should wear a warning sign.
‘I hope you’re as prompt first thing in the morning,’ he says, as if the ankle-turning conversation had never happened.
‘I will be,’ I assure him.
He drives back to the centre of town, asking on the way about my eating preference.
That’s a no-brainer.
‘Chinese, but I should warn you, if you want to share meals, I’m a rice, noodles and veggies girl.’
‘Good grief! A vegetarian in sheep and cattle country!’
‘I am not a vegetarian, I’m simply telling you my food preferences in a Chinese restaurant.’
He gave a huff of either exasperation or disbelief—not an easy man to read—and climbs out of the car. I open the door and jump down before he gets around the bonnet, and am about to shut the door when he grabs it out of my hand.
‘Don’t slam it. It’s aluminium. It buckles easily.’
For the second time in less than an hour the opportunity for a smart retort slips by me. GR is standing close enough for us to kiss, and his hand, zapping its potent power, is covering mine on the doorhandle. My breathing’s gone wonky, and I’m sure my knees are going to give way any minute, while there’s a slow sizzle of something I don’t want to think about deep down in my abdomen.
Thoughts of Pete return—only this time I’m remembering his attempts to describe what happened to him when he met Claudia—and I regret I teased him. Though I only teased him because I had no idea of what he was talking about. I certainly hadn’t experienced the same symptoms with him…
‘You OK?’
GR has shut the door—gently—and is now peering down at me. I look up and see the neon sign of the restaurant’s name—Li Min—flash first red, then yellow across his glasses.
‘Must be tireder than I realised,’ I mutter, and duck away from him, heading towards the restaurant and, hopefully, sanity.
‘I wasn’t going to kiss you.’
I must be hearing things. I turn to frown at him.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I wasn’t going to hit you. Out there. With the door. You flinched away.’
Thank heavens! He didn’t read my mind. Doesn’t know I’d had the weirdest sensation that his lips were about to close in on mine.
Though now I check his face—he’s talking to a woman at the front desk—I wonder if the words he said the second time were a lie. Eyes hidden behind glasses are hard to read but there’s a slight frown drawing the well-shaped dark eyebrows together, as if he’s puzzled over something.
We’re shown to a table, and a smiling young waitress asks about drinks. I opt for water, knowing alcohol in any form will send me straight to sleep. GR orders a light beer, then picks up his menu and studies it. I know what I’m having—vegetable sate and steamed rice—so I take the opportunity to study him.
The glasses give him a nerdy look, but mentally removing them doesn’t make him a conventionally handsome man. Too intense, somehow.
The waitress returns with his beer and a flask of cold water, pouring me a glass. She then hovers, pad in hand, beside me so I order, GR orders, she disappears and silence reigns.
I know I should break it, but I’m suddenly too tired to care why the man doesn’t like working with women registrars. I’m also feeling creeped out by the effect of his touch, and more than slightly confused, in the back part of my mind, by Gran’s conversation. Surely God wouldn’t land me with a nerve-zapping, woman-hating boss and Gran both at the same time. I have a sudden urge to put my head down on the table and have a little sleep.
‘Try to stay awake long enough to eat,’ GR says, and my head shoots up so quickly I’m surprised I haven’t dislocated my neck. ‘We don’t have to talk but you should eat. We don’t work long days—by which I mean we don’t have a huge daily patient load—but the travelling’s tiring until you get used to it.’
‘I thought we came here to talk,’ I remind him, knowing if I keep talking there’s less chance I’ll fall asleep in my noodles. ‘About why you don’t like working with women registrars.�
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Trying to read some reaction in his face is like trying to fathom the emotions of the man in the moon. Bland, that’s what he is.
And silent, now the question’s out in the open again. But he doesn’t seem uneasy—just as if silent is normal for him. I think back over the strange afternoon and realise the only times he spoke were to impart information about the job.
Apart from when he asked me to have dinner with him—though I guess that’s about the job, too.
‘Don’t frown like that,’ he says. ‘It’s not a fatal flaw in my character. I’ve just had a bad run with female registrars. I also happen to have mixed feelings about women specialising in O and G.’
Were they late for work—the ones he had a bad run with? I just finished thinking this when his second statement grabs my attention!
‘Because they can’t work with other women? Can’t empathise with women’s problems? I know it was a male domain for a long time, and this might come as a great shock to you, but I can assure you the vast majority of women would prefer to see another woman when it comes to problems with their private parts.’
The heads of other diners swivel in our direction and I realise my voice may have risen slightly at the end of the final sentence, but this man has the ability to stir me up without even trying.
‘I know that,’ he says mildly. ‘Actually, it works both ways. The majority of men would prefer a fellow male checked them out for an inguinal hernia or a prostate problem.’
‘I’d have thought some men wouldn’t mind having a woman holding their testicles while they coughed,’ I snipe, though I know exactly what he means. What I don’t expect is for the fellow with his back to me at the next table to actually fall off his chair.
By the time GR has helped him to his feet, and glared at me as if it was my fault the idiot was tipping backwards to eavesdrop on our conversation, our meals have arrived. The delicate aromas start my taste-buds working overtime and I immediately lose all interest in GR Prentice’s opinions on women O and G specialists.
Doctors in Flight Page 3