by Mary Hawkins
PRIORITY CARE
Mary Hawkins
Caring for her uncle George after his stroke was physically hard work but, even so, Jean MacAllister had only reluctantly agreed to take a holiday. Phoning to check on George, Jean was unable to raise anyone at the house and got a neighbour, only to hear herself called an uncaring tramp! Racing home to find out what had gone wrong, her rage was so great by the time she arrived that Jean didn’t stop to ask questions, she thumped Chris Hansen on the nose. Unfortunately, consultant geriatrician Chris was the only one with enough power to find out what was happening and Jean wasn’t sure if he would ever forgive her...
CHAPTER ONE
Jean listened in astonishment to the click at the other end of the phone followed by the dialling tone as the call was disconnected. She replaced the receiver with a hand that shook slightly. Dan's secretary was an efficient, reliable worker and a very pleasant woman. Never before had she hung up so abruptly on Jean.
'I'm sorry, Miss Macallister, but Mr Wallace said to tell you they would be away and wouldn't be available to speak to you,' Karen had snapped before hanging up.
Had there been that slight emphasis on the 'said'? Jean stared at the phone, wondering if her inherent distrust of her uncle's stepson was making her imagination too active.
Abruptly she stood, and strode over to her holiday unit's windows that looked out on the brilliant blue of tropical skies and white-flecked ocean.
The anxiety that had begun last night when no one had answered the phone at home, and deepened over an hour ago when there had still been no one there early in the morning, was turning into a dreadful conviction that something was very wrong. Where was her uncle George? Who were the 'they' Karen had mentioned? Dan and his wife? Dan and Alicia and George?
Dan had promised faithfully that he and Alicia would move into the house with his stepfather and care for him until she returned. George so hated to leave the house since his stroke, the poor old darling, that surely he wouldn't have agreed to . . .
Something had to be wrong. But who to contact?
Her friend Julie was away on a buying expedition for new fabric for their curtain-making business.
At last Jean picked up the phone again and called phone number information, wishing she had brought her little address book with her. A few moments later, she was gripping the phone tightly, willing someone to answer the phone at their next-door neighbour's house.
Please answer, Mrs Bensted, she pleaded silently of their frail old next-door neighbour. Don't have gone to your sister's yet.
She gave a deep sigh of relief as the phone stopped ringing.
'Hello, Chris Hansen speaking.'
The unexpected deep, masculine voice sounded slightly breathless and annoyed.
'Oh, I wanted to speak to Mrs Bensted. I must have the wrong ‑'
'This is her nephew speaking. I'm afraid Aunt Maud isn't here. Can I help you?' the voice interrupted crisply.
Jean drew a deep breath. 'Oh, thank goodness. This is Jean Macallister from next door. I'm on holiday and I've been trying to ring my family, but can't get on to anyone. I thought Mrs Bensted might know where they are, and if my ... my uncle George is OK.'
'Is that the elderly gentleman who has always lived next door and had a stroke last year?'
'Yes, that's right. I've been so worried because no one's answering the phone there last night or this morning.'
'Well, I'm sure there's nothing to worry about, Jean.' The voice became gentle and reassuring. For some unknown reason a frisson tingled slightly through Jean. 'Doesn't someone called Georgie care for him very capably?' soothed the pleasant voice. Before she could speak he continued quickly, 'Look, what if I pop over next door and see what I can find out? If no one's home, one of the other neighbours may know. Afraid I only arrived last night. Come to think of it there weren't any lights on next door. But I'm sure there'll be some simple explanation. Probably just away a few days. Why don't you ring me back in about half an hour? Or would it be easier if I rang you?'
'No, no, I can ring you. Thank you so much.'
Jean smiled feebly to herself as she sat still for a moment after replacing the phone. He hadn't let her get a word in once he was in full stream. Mrs Bensted's nephew certainly sounded confident enough. Even a touch arrogant? Big man helping out panicking female? But still, there had been such warmth in that attractive voice. Or there had been after his initial annoyance at being interrupted at whatever he'd had to leave to answer the phone.
He hadn't even given her a chance to tell him she was 'Georgie', as his aunt had called her affectionately for so many years. Her real name was Georgina, which she hated. Since she was fourteen, and her whole life had in such a strange way turned upside-down, she had insisted she be called Jean.
George had understood and just hugged her. Only Mrs Bensted had said she was so much like her old friend George, and that she did like the name! So, despite all Jean's adolescent scowls and rude protests in those early years, Mrs Bensted had started calling her 'Georgie', and had continued to do so for the past ten years.
Jean frowned. Mrs Bensted's nephew Chris? He must be the wonder-boy nephew who had done so well at university studying medicine. She remembered the number of times over the years the old lady had rambled on proudly about her wonderful nephew, and the number of times Jean had privately thought it a shame he had never bothered to visit his loving aunt more.
Jean had a rather vague memory of meeting a tall, rather handsome young man some time during that first traumatic year with George. The only times since then when he had briefly visited next door she herself had been away on summer holiday trips with George, and then later at university herself.
She had occasionally thought she would like to meet this paragon again, until Mrs Bensted had once said mournfully, 'My sister's so disappointed her clever son has never married. Too busy with establishing his career to be bothered with obtaining a wife, he always tells her. Poor Dorothy. Neither of her other children has obliged either. She longs for at least one grandchild.'
Mrs Bensted had turned away then. But Jean had known it was to hide her own sadness that she herself had never had any children of her own.
Jean had immediately wanted nothing to do with anyone who was so ambitious that he put a wife and family so low on his list of priorities. And then, after what Tony had done to her, she had cared even less about meeting him again. Tony had .also been a doctor. She shuddered, and with an effort of will deliberately swung her thoughts back to their elderly neighbour.
Mrs Bensted had been dreadfully upset six months ago when George had been in hospital and had spent quite a lot of time with him since he had been back home. But lately she hadn't been very well herself, and was becoming more and more forgetful. Jean had made sure the last few weeks she'd called over there as often as she could, and been relieved when plans had begun for George's old friend to go and live with her only sister in Sydney.
Jean glanced at her watch. She was starting to feel the heat and humidity already, although in half an hour's time it would only be ten o'clock. Restlessly she moved again over to the window, and stood staring out at the panorama stretching before -her. The small section of the beach she could see from her unit was already dotted with beach umbrellas. Any other day she too would have been already down there soaking up the April sun, silently gloating at being away from the cool southern autumn.
A wave of anxiety and tiredness swept over her. There had been very little sleep the previous night after she had been unable to get Alicia or Dan to answer the phone at home. She had even tried numerous times, and until quite late last night, to get them at their own ostentatious house and land package just north of Newcastle.
Abruptly she turned away and flung he
rself down on the bed. Oh, why had she been so stupid to allow herself to be talked into going so far away for a holiday? Instead of over fifteen hundred kilometres north to the Great Barrier Reef, she shouldn't have gone further than the two and a half hours south by road to Sydney.
All her original doubts about the wisdom of her believing the change in attitude of George's stepson and his wife was genuine had returned last night as she fretted the long night hours away. She had rung home almost every day during the last fortnight, until the last couple of days. Then she had been away on a cruise around the beautiful islands in Whitsunday Passage off the Great Barrier Reef. Even then she had told Alicia to tell George where she was going and why she couldn't ring him.
It had certainly turned out to be the wonderful holiday that George's stepson and his wife had promised her. She had been glad, until last night, that she had at last given in to their insistence that she needed a rest.
But Alicia had annoyed Jean immensely when she had brought up the subject again in front of George.
'Jean, you've hardly left the house for months.' she had said sympathetically. 'Look at you. Black circles under your eyes. You've lost far too much weight. Why don't you take us up on our holiday offer?' She had continued to persist despite Jean's polite refusal. 'You really do need a break. Do use our timeshare holiday unit at Airlie's Beach. It's so close to Mackay and the Reef. Think of it as a belated birthday present. You won't mind if we look after you for those three weeks, will you, George?'
Jean had bitten back the words that she had more than sufficient money of her own for a holiday as she had looked at George. He had looked so sad, so guilty. It had been the pleading in his eyes as much as his slightly slurred 'Go' that had at last made her agree that yes, she was tired, and yes, their gift was the perfect holiday.
And tired she had been. She had done very little the first week. It had been luxury to sleep undisturbed by the need to get up and attend to George sometimes more than once during the night, or at the very least very early in the morning as she had for the last five months. There had been no need to cook or prepare special soft meals, no need to wash unpleasantly soiled clothes and nightwear several times a week, no need to feel her heart ache with love and compassion as she watched his daily frustration at his inability to do so many basic things for himself. Like not being able even to put on or take off his cardigan. Like trying to . . .
One hand went to her lips, and she sucked in a long breath. Only as she had gradually relaxed, and been able to start enjoying herself, had she begun to realise the full extent of the pressure she had been living under caring for George since she had brought him home from hospital.
Surely nothing could be seriously wrong now. Surely Dan would have rung her himself, or left a very different message at his office. She thought with relief of Chris Hansen. Dr Chris Hansen, she corrected herself, and smiled slightly as she thought of that deep voice she had found so attractive. It would be interesting meeting the owner again. Jean found herself relaxing a little. He had oozed with confidence. It wouldn't be long and he would tell her what was happening, and then perhaps she could finish enjoying this last week of her holiday. Her worried hazel eyes closed. Suddenly the sleepless hours caught up with her and she was asleep..
She woke suddenly when a door near by slammed shut. Groggily she looked at her watch and groaned at the time. After eleven! Frantically she reached for the phone, but to her dismay there was no answer. Oh, why hadn't she given him her phone number? Jean lost track of the number of times she had dialled the number, and it was nearly an hour later before at last the same deep, attractive voice growled his name.
'Oh, where have you been? I've been frantic ‑'
Her desperate words were ruthlessly interrupted as he snarled, 'Not too frantic to ring when you said you would, Miss Macallister! I've better things to do with my time then to hang around waiting for phone calls.'
'I'm . . . sorry. I . . . fell asleep and ‑'
'That figures. Pretty typical, I'd say.'
Jean sat up a little straighter. Gone were the warm, friendly tones. He sounded absolutely furious with her. What on earth . . . ?
'Please, did you find out if George is OK?' she forced herself to ask as calmly as she could.
'Apparently he is now. No thanks to you, I might add. He's recovering in hospital.'
'In hospital! Oh, no! He can't be!'
'Miss Macallister, if a man is neglected like that poor devil, I'd say he certainly can be, and a whole lot better off too!' The deep voice was filled with utter contempt.
'Neglected!' Horror choked up Jean's throat to no more than a whisper.
The apprehension that had been gripping her burst into a fear close to panic. She closed her eyes. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the phone. She fought for control, but heard her voice rising with her fear.
'Do ... do you know what happened? When did he go in? Is George all right?'
There was a brief silence.
'Oh, please don't hang up! Who were you speaking to? Did they know if ... if it's another . . . another stroke ... or ... or ... ?'
Her hoarse voice ceased as the tears started to trickle down her cheeks. She could not even speak of her deep-seated fear. For six long months she had lived with the terror that her beloved uncle would have another stroke, even though the doctors had told her that if he continued on his present treatment it was unlikely.
'I was talking to a Mrs Jones, the woman over the road.'
For a moment she thought he sounded a little taken aback and uncertain.
Jean groaned silently. She'd had an ongoing feud with that lady for as long as she'd been friends with Mrs Bensted. Goodness knew what impression she'd given.
'Oh, please. Did Mrs Jones know if George was all right?'
Your neighbour said she saw him put into an ambulance ten days ago. She—'
'Ten days ago! But that's impossible! I've only been gone a fortnight. And Alicia said ‑'
Jean's dazed, frightened mind cleared a little as she remembered the number of times during the last fortnight she had phoned at the same time each day, only to be told by Alicia that they were coping very well and George was fine.
'Oh, thank goodness. Mrs Jones is wrong. He was definitely OK only ‑' she started to say in a relieved voice, and then realised he was speaking again.
'And apparently it only took four days after you went swanning off, deserting him ‑'
The words were bitten off, but not before she had been stung again by the icicles in his voice. She swallowed furiously, but before she could find her voice the cold, clipped words continued.
'Mrs Jones said his daughter-in-law appeared to be very upset. Brushed her aside as she got into her own car by just saying he was being admitted to hospital. She hasn't seen anyone since. I'm afraid I can't assist you any more.' Then Jean heard the fury take over the carefully controlled voice with a vengeance. 'You don't deserve any of the trouble you've put me to! You . . . you ungrateful, hard-hearted little tramp!'
The voice stopped abruptly, and then there was only the dialling tone in her ear, and the taste of salty tears on her lips.
It was well over twenty-four hours before the Sydney taxi drove slowly up the long, curving drive to the large old house in its bushland setting with its glorious views of the blue waters of Lake Macquarie.
Jean climbed out of the cab and watched the driver carry her heavy case up the short flight of steps to the front patio of the gracious old home. She was thoroughly exhausted, and only a strange feeling of numbness had made it possible for her to function. For only the third time in her life she had been thankful that money was no obstacle to getting back home as fast as she could.
She thanked the taxi driver, and managed a slight smile at his jubilant grin, as she paid him the astronomical amount he had been fortunate to earn for the two-and-a-half-hour fare north from Mascot Airport. As the taxi turned to go back down the driveway, Jean glanced across the wide exp
anse of lawns and gardens to Mrs Bensted's house. She noted the freshly mown grass and the pile of rubbish where someone had made an onslaught on the overgrown shrubs. Obviously the nephew had at long last deigned to do some long-overdue cleaning up of an old lady's garden!
She heard again his scathing, nasty accusations. One word had been sounding over and over deep in her heart and mind. The numbness started to give way to the deep dread of what she would find out about George. Then anger began to stir again.
How dared he? How dared a complete stranger, who obviously knew nothing about her, speak to her like that?
Suddenly she was storming across her own untidy garden, over the freshly cut lawn, dodging a pile of discarded branches. These added fuel to the fire in her. Several shrubs had been ruthlessly cut right back, almost to the ground. Even her favourite, a beautiful double red hibiscus, had only a few bare branches poking up grotesquely.
Then she was pounding on the front door with both fists.
A tall, bare-chested man flung open the door.
Perhaps it was the fury in his dark, flashing eyes. Perhaps it was the culmination of the months of strain and anguish, perhaps just the result of little sleep for two nights. He only had a chance to open his mouth before Jean's fist slammed into his face.
'There! There, you horrible, horrible man! How dare you . . . how dare you call me a tramp?'
With the terrible crunch, and the immediate pain in her knuckles, the very last remnant of the strict self-control that had enabled Jean to book her flight, survive another long, sleepless night and the flight to Mascot, organise and survive the drive from Sydney was gone.
She was vaguely aware that the man reeled back out of sight, as she at last burst into the too-long-delayed storm of tears.
She spun around to flee. The world tilted as dizziness swept over her. She felt her foot catch on an old warped floorboard on the sadly unrepaired veranda. A sharp pain shot through her right ankle as she went sprawling.