by Mary Hawkins
'No, Julie,' said Jean with a smile at her forgetful friend, 'due back next Saturday.'
'Oops! Boy, am I glad you're home, then. But why? Nothing wrong with George, is there?'
Jean explained briefly what had happened. She skipped various aspects of her meetings with her new next-door neighbour! But she did tell her who George's new doctor was.
After Julie had said how sorry she was that George was back in hospital again, she paused, and then said very gently, 'But Jean, I think it may be the best thing that could have happened in the long run for you both. I don't think that either of you had been copying very well the last few weeks, had you?'
'Julie!'
'Bill and I have been getting more and more worried about you both,' she added rapidly. 'It's been getting so much harder to get you to leave the house. Oh, I know, with Mrs Bensted not too well either, you didn't like asking her to stay with George, but you never accepted our offers of help . . . and . . . and we've watched you gradually getting more and more tired, losing weight. . . and, well we just felt so darned helpless, so there!'
There was dead silence.
'Jean? Oh, please! Don't . . . don't be angry.'
Jean swallowed and said in a small, shaky voice. 'You . . . you don't think I've been neglecting George, do you?'
'Oh, good heavens, no! Not for a moment.' Jean heard her friend's voice crack, and suspected she was on the verge of tears. 'Me and my big mouth!' she wailed. 'Bill will kill me for saying anything, because he's told me so many times to butt out. You've given George the most wonderful care, but you've been neglecting yourself!'
Jean breathed a sigh of relief. 'You're a good friend, Ju. But I owe George so much. I could never see him go into a nursing home as long as I can look after him here.'
There was a pause, then Julie sighed. 'I'm sorry, love. I shouldn't have said anything. I only rang up to try and beg for help.'
Jean straightened. 'You're busy?'
And how!' Jean heard the exultation in her friend's voice. 'I'm still working on one order, and in comes another one. A massive order for a very large house. Every window needs curtains, and would you believe Irene has flu? I thought you might be glad of some more income after your holiday, too,' she teased.
Jean felt the usual stab of guilt which seemed to come every time Julie and Bill commented about her finances.
'I'm not sure how much time I'll have myself,' Jean said hesitantly. 'I have to spend as much time as possible at the hospital, although I could do some early in the morning and at night, if that will be any help. Still, it could take me at least a week.'
'It sure will, and I've already warned the customer that due to unforeseen circumstances the curtains won't be ready on time. Without your help it would have been two to three weeks late. We're very busy at last,' she added with satisfaction.
'I'm really pleased for you both,' Jean said sincerely. 'When can the material be brought around?'
'Right now?'
Jean looked at the time. It was just after seven. 'My goodness, you are desperate!'
'Well, Tom and Joe both have material to collect, or curtains to pick up, and that only leaves Bill. He has to install an order at Singleton, and the lady is expecting him before nine.'
Jean had been more delighted than she had let on to her friends when their fledgling curtain-making and fitting business had started to get off the ground. They had remained completely unaware why their bank manager had changed his mind so completely after initially refusing them a loan. George was the only person who knew that the size of her account at that particular bank had made it very easy to stand as a secret guarantor for her friends. In fact, it had been only the second time in her life she had been at all pleased she had enough money to do what she really wanted to. But not even the local bank knew the size of her inheritance. It had seemed so incredible and so indecent for one person to have so much, especially when she had seen no use for it. But then George had needed her, and that had all changed.
Jean suspected that not even George had known just how much money her father had amassed in his endless, frenetic search for power and prestige—a search that had ruined her mother's life and caused a lonely, abused girl to have a father who was practically a stranger.
George had aided and abetted her desire to forget her inheritance over the years, refusing her trustees' offers of financial help. He had accepted her abhorrence of any mention of it, even when she had refused to look at any papers from the frustrated trustees. Only after they had insisted on handing over the estate to her when she turned twenty-one, forcing meetings and signing of papers on her, had she begun to realise the responsibility they had carried so faithfully for so many years. So she had promptly employed them still to handle the huge estate, insisting that as much as possible of her father's many shares and interest in various businesses be sold. She knew they were still reluctantly working on that, and had refused to do more than sign on the dotted line from time to time after various negotiations were completed. The black spectre of what she would eventually do with it all had been pushed well and truly into the background since George's stroke.
Bill arrived just before eight, backing his small van into the garage as the men always did when they arrived to pick up or deliver. It took them quite some time to move the many rolls of material into her workroom. They enjoyed exchanging their usual banter, and she was still laughing as she waved him goodbye outside before turning back to pull down the roller door.
The roar of an engine made her look up to see Chris's gleaming car rocket off down the street. She watched it until it turned the corner, wondering if he always drove like a lunatic away from his home. Then she caught herself wondering wistfully if she would see him at the hospital again that day.
Although she found herself listening several times to male voices outside George's room, he never appeared. It wasn't until the next morning, when she arrived at ten, that he was standing at the nurses' station. He was smiling at something the nurse behind the counter was trilling in a rather loud voice, and the amusement was still in his face as he glanced up and saw her.
The smile disappeared so suddenly as he glared at her that she stopped dead.
Now what have I done? she wondered helplessly. Did he expect me still to be here at tea-time last night? George had still been sleeping off and on all day, and when his tea had arrived she had decided to leave him to it so that she could spend the rest of the evening tackling the curtain material. Only another visit from Bill late at night, delivering some extra padding for the pelmets, had interrupted her.
'Good morning, Miss Macallister. I've been waiting to have a word with you. I'm glad you were able to recover so rapidly and come at your usual time,' he bit out in a cold, sarcastic voice that brought her chin up.
'Recover? From what?'
Instead of relaxing at her puzzled expression and the question in her voice, he stiffened.
'I'm sure you know,' he snapped, and then drew a deep breath.
'Know? Know what?'
'Your nocturnal activities are really none of my concern, Miss Macallister.' All expression on his face was blanked out as he gestured with a hand holding a chart board towards the small lounge-room next door. 'I'm afraid this hospital doesn't have any resident doctors, so would you please spare me a few minutes while I check a few things with you about your uncle?' he said coldly.
For a moment she couldn't move. Nocturnal? Bill! He must have seen him and thought . . . thought . . .
She straightened and strode past him angrily. In the small room she rounded on him.
'You're right, Dr Hansen. None of my activities is of any concern to you except in regard to your patient.'
He regarded her steadily for a moment and then his expression changed. 'Shall we get on with it, then?' he said in a controlled voice.
'Do you have the pathology results back?' she asked as calmly as she could once she was seated.
He frowned, and she stared anxiously at him
as he sat on the edge of a chair across from her. Vaguely she registered that it was about as far away from her as he could get in the small space.
'Yes,' he said briefly, his gaze on the sheets of paper he was flicking through, 'I'll get to those in a moment. First, I need to check on some history of his stroke. Prince Alfred Hospital still hasn't ‑' He looked up at her at her startled exclamation.
'Oh, dear, you did mention Prince Alfred the other night, didn't you? And I meant to ask you why they would have his old notes, but I. . . we . . .' She gulped as his expression darkened as he too remembered. 'Do they have some special arrangements with St Helen's?'
He looked blankly at her, and then frowned. 'No, not to my knowledge. St Helen's is an exclusive private hospital on the North Shore, isn't it?' He looked impatient. 'What's that got to do with ‑?'
But that's where George was admitted by his friend's doctor.'
He stared at her, and then flipped to the front of the charts, read for a moment, and then glared blackly at her again.
'You're sure he was never transferred to P.A.?'
She nodded decisively, taking exception to Iris doubtful tone. 'Of course I am. I happened to be at home studying during half term when they rang, and I was able to get there in a couple of hours. And I hardly left him for . . . for weeks . . .'
She didn't mention the nightmare drive, the speeding ticket she had collected on the expressway, or the difficulty she had found when trying to find the hospital, her heart praying the whole time that he would still be alive when she got there. But there must have been some reflection in her face of her agony at that dreadful time, for his expression thawed slightly before he jumped to his feet and strode out.
She heard him bark something at someone, and was still staring after him when he returned a couple of moments later.
'It was Dan, wasn't it? He told them George was at P.A.'
He confirmed her suspicions with an abrupt nod. 'I think perhaps if he didn't even know that we'd better start at the very beginning.'
It was painful to be forced to recall all she could remember about those days at St Helen's. She had eventually been told that the cerebro-vascular incident had been caused by a cerebral thrombosis. Chris probed everything out of her, even the exact words the doctors had said to her at different stages, any treatment she had known for sure George had been on. She told him what she could remember about the intravenous therapy that had provided the only nourishment during the long days of unconsciousness, when George's life had hung on a thread. There had been IV heparin and then oral warfarin therapy to prevent any further clots from forming. Later on, the verapamil medication dosages had been worked out to control his elevated blood-pressure. There had been the sudden concern when he had developed a cough, and a course of antibiotics had been deemed necessary. He even wanted to know the details of the type of food she had given George since his discharge.
'Any bran scans?' Chris asked crisply at one stage.
'A CT scan after three weeks.'
Her voice faltered as she told him of the time George had been considered stable enough to be transferred safely to the well set up X-ray department at the hospital. But she didn't tell him of the sympathy in the kind-hearted doctor's eyes as he had told her the extent of the brain-cell infarction.
'And what about rehabilitation?'
She looked blankly at him for a moment. 'Do you mean the physiotherapy?'
He frowned again and looked up from his note-taking to study her face again. 'Yes, that, as well as speech therapy, occupational therapy, specialised nursing.'
'He had physio every day once he was well enough,' she said eagerly, but then faltered. 'Unfortunately they were only able to get a speech therapist to visit him a couple of times. She gave me reams of stuff to read and some exercises to do, but . . . but George hated them so . . .'
'Did anyone arrange for an occupational therapist to assess the house before he was discharged?'
'One of the nurses did mention it once during the last week,' she said thoughtfully, 'but nothing was ever done about it.'
She couldn't see what he was thinking as he kept writing, but she sensed something she had said had made him angry again.
'Do ... do you think it was important?' she asked after a pause.
'Yes.' He looked up at her, and she knew she had been partly right. The atmosphere had changed completely between them during the past half-hour or so.
She had relaxed as he had thawed out and become almost friendly. Now he was not only angry. Something like frustration also filled his dark eyes.
'I find it very regrettable that no one seemed to think it necessary to insist on any follow-up rehabilitation, especially after you brought him home, to monitor any difficulties.'
'Oh, but our doctor visits whenever I ring him,' she said eagerly. 'He always checks his blood-pressure and chest.'
The expression on his face tightened again, and he dropped his gaze to what he had written. He hesitated and then said slowly, 'Has he had any blood-tests since he came home?' When she shook her head, he hesitated and then asked, 'And has no one ever said anything about him being a diabetic?'
She froze.
'No. Never,' she managed when he looked up at her sharply.
'I'm afraid the blood-sugar-level reading on his pathology results is elevated,' he said slowly, 'showing he has what we call maturity-onset diabetes, or non-insulin-dependent diabetes. He was overweight before his stroke?' She nodded. 'And he's lost some weight these past few months?' Again she nodded. He smiled faintly. 'That would have lowered his blood-sugar levels. So it seems as though they would have been reasonably maintained by the food you've been giving him so sensibly, but blew up on whatever your cousin fed him while you were away. It's not too bad now, but I suspect it may have been elevated enough to have contributed to his fall.'
She felt tears prick her eyes. She stared helplessly at him. This would be one more thing to cope with at home.
He frowned again as he studied her. Then his expression softened. 'Look, at the moment the blood-sugar levels aren't too bad and should be controllable by a sugar-free, calorie-controlled diet. There's certainly no need to start any insulin or daonil treatment at this stage. We'll do glucometer readings after every meal and last thing at night for a few days, and then we may get some idea of the best way to go.'
A loud beeping sounded, and he reached for a small black case hooked on to his belt. After he had studied the message for a moment, he stood up.
'Look, there are still a few questions, and things we need to talk about, but this long-range beeper message means there will be little time left today, I'm afraid. I have meetings set up at the John Hunter and the Mater as well.'
She started to protest, saying, 'But I haven't asked you anything yet ‑' but he cut across her rapidly.
Look, can you still be here after five? I should be finished by then and can call in on my way home.'
She agreed, and after a brief smile his long strides took him rapidly out of sight.
Jean found that the day went very slowly. George was awake much more, but seemed irritable at times. She found out from the staff that he had made a fuss when they had tried to give him his blood-pressure tablets. When she asked about the tablets, she was told that they were the same ones brought in with him on admission. He also had a slight rash on his back which had been there since his admission. Bruising from the fall was fading rapidly, but so far he had only been allowed up for his shower and toileting via a wheelchair.
When she asked about getting him up, she was told Dr Hansen had requested that a physiotherapist assess him the next morning and start mobilising him.
Sister Howard was -not on duty that day, and Jean found that the attitude of the staff towards her had completely changed. Whatever lies Alicia and Dan had told about her Chris must have put right. A thrill went through her when she realised he had believed her after all.
Jean spent several minutes at different intervals duri
ng the day giving passive exercise to George's hemiplegic hand and arm, as she had faithfully each day for many long months, to try and prevent any contractures of the muscles. He at first seemed even more reluctant than usual to try to do the active exercises for his partially paralysed leg. To her dismay, he could only just manage to lift it no more than a couple of centimetres off the bed. By the time five o'clock had arrived she knew with a sinking heart that, despite his having no tranquillisers for two days, George's movements, coordination and speech were more sluggish than she could remember since those early weeks at St Helen's.
It was a real battle to remain cheerful by the time another hour had crawled past and Chris had still not made an appearance. She felt exhausted and was starving, having eaten very little since leaving home. The curtain-making was worrying her as she knew she would need every spare moment at home cutting and sewing to have them finished in time.
It was well after six when Jean stood up, deciding Chris must have forgotten about her. George had been very quiet since his tea. When she stood up he turned a worried face to her.
'Afraid it's my tea-time now, love,' she said with a smile.
He opened his mouth to speak and something unintelligible came out. A flash of anger lit his eyes before he closed them. She waited patiently for a few moments and was rewarded when he at last looked at her again and said more distinctly, 'Sleep,' and, after another pause, 'Help.'
She was puzzled for a bit, and then her face lightened.
'You want something to help you sleep tonight?'
When he nodded vigorously, she said cheerfully, 'I'll make sure Sister knows about the Serepax you take sometimes.'
He still did not look completely satisfied, but then nodded abruptly. Jean did not hear the door open silently behind her as she leaned over to kiss him.
George reached up and pulled gently at the black wavy hair that curled over her ear.
'Where's my Jeanie?' he murmured slowly, but still with a trace of bewilderment.
Jean chuckled. 'I—er ‑'
She glanced up as the tall figure came into her line of vision on the other side of the bed. He was watching them both very intently. Jean felt heat sweep into her face as delight flooded her that he had come after all.