Doctor's Orders

by Ann Jennings

  “How did you like your first morning?” bubbled Sally. “Working with dear Dr Mike Blakeney can be a bit difficult. He’s a strange character.” She paused a moment. “I’ve never been able to suss him out. Pity,” she continued brushing her hair vigorously, “because he’s a very eligible bachelor. But he never gives anyone any encouragement, he’s always remained a bit of a mystery.”

  “I’m not surprised he’s a bachelor,” remarked Isabel acidly, “he certainly doesn’t seem the friendly type. All I’ve seen of him are those cold grey eyes of his above his mask, and I can’t say I’m particularly anxious to see any more of him!”

  Sally laughed. “The gossip is that he was badly let down by some girl, and now takes it out on all the female sex. That’s why he’s so unfriendly, and there’s no doubt,” she continued, lowering her voice confidentially, “that when he has a girl working with him he is much more demanding. He lets the fellows make the occasional mistake, but woe betide any woman who makes a mistake! He’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks!” After imparting that cheerful piece of information, she made for the door, stopping to look back before leaving. “By the way, do you want to come down to lunch. I’ll introduce you to a few people in the canteen.”

  Isabel accepted with alacrity, quickly tying her long dark, curly hair back into a pony tail. It was nice to have her hair free for an hour, after being crammed into a theatre cap all morning. She followed Sally out of the theatre suite, and along the wide polished corridor in the direction of the staff canteen.

  They both collected a lunch from the hot counter, and Sally looked around the crowded canteen, then pointed to a table at the far side of the room. “There’s Cliff Peterson,” she said, “he’s the surgical registrar who was in theatre this morning. He’s always good for a laugh. Susie Wee and Jim Smith, another anaesthetist, are with him.”

  “Not like the remote Dr Blakeney I hope,” said Isabel pulling a face.

  “Not in the least like Mike Blakeney,” laughed Sally. “Quite the reverse in fact. Very chatty, great fun and nice. He and Mike Blakeney are quite friendly though, but I can never understand why!”

  She led the way across to the table, Isabel following, squeezing in between the crowded noisy tables until they reached their destination.

  Cliff Peterson stood up courteously when they reached the table. “Hi,” he said to both of them, and then to Isabel, “you’re new here aren’t you?” He made room for Isabel to sit beside him, and took her tray from her.

  “I’m from Edinburgh,” she answered with a smile, squeezing in beside him.

  “That’s a long way to come,” he remarked, “any special reason for coming to the County General?”

  Isabel shrugged her shoulders non-committally. “I just felt like a change,” she said. “The south coast seemed quite a change from Edinburgh.”

  Cliff laughed. “I’m glad you’re not fleeing with a broken heart,” he said, “working with one in theatre is quite enough!”

  Isabel raised her finely shaped dark eyebrows expressively in a questioning look, at the same time making a mental note never to tell anyone that in fact she had done precisely that.

  When Hugh Sinclair, a senior registrar in anaesthetics, had thrown her over after an eighteen-month engagement for a student nurse he had only just met, she had been broken-hearted. However, her pride had prevented her from showing it. Pride combined with a true Scottish grit. She had been very dignified, and had let Hugh think she had taken it well. Just handing in her notice and getting herself another job. Although, on reflection, she realised that working as an anaesthetist’s assistant in theatre had perhaps not been the wisest move. It would be difficult to forget Hugh when she would be working with anaesthetists all the time.

  Cliff carried on with his conversation in answer to her questioning gaze. “I was referring of course,” he said, “to our esteemed consultant anaesthetist, Dr Mike Blakeney. He is suffering from a broken heart, or so the gossip goes.”

  “Sally did mention something to me,” said Isabel. Cliff paused between forkfuls of steak and kidney pie, “Trust Sally not to waste a moment in starting the gossip! Anyway,” he continued, “perhaps you are just what the doctor ordered. A new face, a new girl. Perhaps you can cheer him up for us.”

  “Forget it,” said Isabel briefly. “I don’t regard my role in life as that of an agony aunt! If he wants to cheer up, he could start off by at least being polite! I’ve never worked with anyone before who managed to get through the whole morning without saying please or thank you once!”

  “It sounds as if he annoyed you,” remarked Sally from the opposite side of the table. “At least he doesn’t shout like Mr Goldsmith.”

  “At least you know Mr Goldsmith is human,” retorted Isabel pulling a face, “I’m not so sure about Dr Blakeney. Underneath that theatre gown I wouldn’t be surprised to find a robot!”

  “If you’d like to come into the mens’ changing room, I’d be only too happy to set your mind at rest!” A steely voice echoed in Isabel’s ear.

  Her face colouring violently Isabel swung round. It was Michael Blakeney standing right behind her, a tray in his hand. She was struck by his rugged good looks. His hair was a dark bronzed colour, faintly waving, and in dramatic contrast to his dark brows. His grey eyes, however, seemed colder and more impenetrable than ever.

  Knowing that her cheeks were stained a guilty red, she tried to regain her composure, and tilting her head back defiantly, her brilliant blue eyes challenged his steely grey ones. “You know what they say,” she said, forcing a nonchalance she didn’t feel into her voice.

  “What?” he snapped curtly. “What do they say?”

  “Eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves!” With that verbal dart, she turned back to her lunch, but Mike Blakeney was not to be deterred.

  “I was not eavesdropping,” he said coolly, “your penetrating Scots accent is difficult to miss!” Without waiting for a reply he walked swiftly away.

  “Round one to him, I think!” said Sally with a giggle.

  Isabel looked at her crossly. “If you think I’m going to engage in a sparring match with him, you are mistaken,” she snapped, “I just can’t be bothered.”

  “Pity,” remarked Cliff Peterson with a laugh, “I have a feeling you would be a good match for him. I thought that this morning, when you stood up to old Goldsmith. He usually reduces most nurses to tears.”

  “No man will ever reduce me to tears,” said Isabel, vehemently. Perhaps it was a little too vehement, because for a split second there was silence at the table as everyone looked at her.

  “A women’s libber, eh?” enquired Cliff, raising his eyebrows.

  “Not particularly,” said Isabel firmly, “I just don’t like bullies that’s all. It doesn’t matter to me whether they are male or female.”

  “Good for you,” he said with a grin, “a girl after my own heart.”

  There wasn’t much more time for chat, as the hour between the morning and afternoon operating lists soon passed. Before long Isabel was back in the quiet, orderly atmosphere of the anaesthetic room and operating theatre.

  Mike Blakeney had been so curt and taciturn in the morning that Isabel had not thought it possible for him to be more so. But somehow he contrived to be just that! He was brusque to the point of making Isabel long to throw the drug ampoules at him when he asked for a drug, but her professionalism prevented that, even though she was sorely tempted.

  The rest of the afternoon passed fairly uneventfully, Isabel even getting used to her silent, moody-looking colleague. The patients came and went in a seemingly never-ending stream, for various operations. Isabel marvelled at the stamina of Mr Goldsmith, who was not a young man, and, apart from the one hour break, had been on his feet all day. She didn’t marvel at the stamina of Mike Blakeney, he seemed so cool and efficient she felt he could go on anaesthetising for t
wenty-four hours without a stop if necessary. Nothing seemed to make him lose his cool, and even though some of the surgical procedures were simple, the patient often had complicated anaesthetic problems.

  The last patient on the list was a fit young girl for an appendicectomy, but for some reason she didn’t respond in the usual way to the drugs Mike Blakeney gave her, and he had difficulty in preparing her for intubation. Quickly Isabel passed him all the drugs he would need and when he asked for the laryngoscope she passed that to him quickly as well. But not quickly enough, because he barked at her tersely, “The laryngoscope, damn you.”

  It was in his hands almost before he had finished speaking, Isabel biting her lips in vexation. She had proudly boasted in the dining room that no man would ever reduce her to tears, but at that moment Mike Blakeney had come perilously close to doing just that. However, the tense atmosphere of the anaesthetic room, when presented with a difficult and potentially very dangerous situation, was unnerving for them both. He was worried, she knew that, the tense lines on his face as he bent over the girl showed his concern, but she didn’t think she had reacted so slowly that she deserved to be sworn at!

  Once the girl was intubated and ventilated she provided no further problems, and the appendicectomy proceeded without further incident. At the end of the case Mike Blakeney accompanied the girl back to recovery and Isabel set about clearing up the anaesthetic room.

  Carefully and meticulously she counted everything, checked and double-checked the drugs, cleaned and relaid the anaesthetic trolley ready for the operations the next day. She was thankful that it was the end of the day. Her nerves were tense and her limbs felt like lead, she was so tired. She was glad too, that tomorrow she would be working with a different anaesthetist, Dr Jim Smith. His name was on the next day’s operating sheet pinned up outside the anaesthetic room door, and Cliff Peterson would be doing the surgery by himself. It was a list of relatively simple operations, varicose veins and hernias, things he could do without Mr Goldsmith’s supervision.

  At least tomorrow should be a little more relaxed thought Isabel thankfully, as she walked out of the anaesthetic room after one last final check to make sure everything was in place.

  Once in the changing room she changed quickly into jeans and a teeshirt. The changing room was empty, everyone else had already changed and gone. As a theatre nurse she didn’t need to wear a uniform into the hospital, always wearing a theatre dress once she was there. At least that’s a bonus point for the job, she thought! Carrying her cardigan slung casually over her shoulder, her dark hair free again to cascade down her back, she started to walk down the corridor leading to the main exit from the theatre suite. As she passed the theatre sister’s office, Sister Clarke called out.

  “Oh, Nurse McKenna, come here a moment will you.”

  Isabel stepped into the sister’s office wondering what it was she wanted.

  “Dr Blakeney has been speaking to me about you,” said Sister Clarke, looking up from her mountain of paperwork.

  Isabel’s heart sank. Surely he hadn’t complained just because she hadn’t handed him the laryngoscope quickly enough! “Why?” she asked, anxiety showing through in her voice.

  Sister Clarke smiled at Isabel’s expression. She was a kindly looking, middle-aged woman. “Don’t look so worried,” she said. “Dr Blakeney stopped by to say how pleased he was with his new assistant. Quite unusual,” she continued, raising her eyebrows, “he usually only speaks to me when he has something to complain about!”

  Chapter Two

  As she walked slowly back to her small hospital room, which was located at the top of the residence block in the hospital grounds, Isabel reflected on Sister Clarke’s unexpected information. If Sister had been surprised that Dr Blakeney had said he was pleased, she couldn’t have been nearly as surprised as Isabel herself. He had given no sign or indication that he was pleased with her work, if anything his behaviour had been symptomatic of quite the reverse! She supposed she ought to have felt pleased, but her tiredness, and an overwhelming feeling of depression, didn’t lift one iota.

  What did it matter what he thought of her? If life in theatre when Dr Blakeney was working there—and he was there three whole days a week—was going to consist permanently of curt snapped commands and no rapport at all, what he thought of her work was of little importance!

  As she pushed open the door of her room, nostalgia swept over her, and she wished with all her heart she was back in the familiar surroundings of her hospital in Edinburgh. There, she had lived in a large room in an old house; here the room was small and modern, although she had to admit that it had a lovely view, looking away from the hospital towards the forest and the sea. But even the lovely view didn’t help Isabel’s black mood. In fact it only served to make her feel even more depressed and restless. She felt in limbo. Perhaps she had been foolish to rush so precipitously down from Edinburgh, where all her friends were. Here she knew no one except Sally and Susie Wee, and she knew from the conversation at lunch time that they both had dates that evening.

  It was early summer, and the sun shone down invitingly on the green lawns and trees outside. No point in sitting around feeling sorry for myself, thought Isabel resolutely. So, slamming the door of her room shut behind her, she went out just as she was, in her jeans and teeshirt, her cardigan tied casually around her slim waist. The evening was just right for a good long walk. Yes, that was it, she would walk her blues away.

  The evening sun filtered through the leaves of the trees, casting dappled shadows on her dark hair as she walked down the long tree-lined road that led away from the hospital. Isabel looked around curiously; this was the town she had chosen to be her new home, although she mentally winced at the word “home’. She had no home. Her parents were both dead, and she had been brought up by her grandmother, now also dead. She thought of the three graves in the overgrown little churchyard, filled with lichen-clad headstones, the ever present wind sweeping across the hillside where the little village clung tenaciously. It was just outside Edinburgh, and since her grandmother’s funeral, she had never been back. She had felt that all her links with the village had been severed with the death of her grandmother. There was nothing to go back for, although she always sent money regularly to the church, for the grass to be cut and fresh flowers to be placed on the graves.

  It was just after her grandmother’s funeral, when she had been feeling so lonely, that she had met Hugh Sinclair and had fallen headlong in love with the handsome young anaesthetist. He had arrived with the reputation of being a womaniser and a heartbreaker, but he had assured Isabel that she was the one and only girl for him. At first she had been and they had become engaged. However, she didn’t remain his one and only girl for long. Even during their engagement Isabel had known he was having affairs with other girls, a fact which she always pushed to the back of her mind. He had always come back to her, and she had always welcomed him with open arms because she loved him. At least she thought that she had, but for some strange reason she had always held back from giving herself to him completely. She had never been able to explain why, not even to herself, and certainly not to Hugh. When the final break came it was a fact he had taunted her with.

  “You are frigid,” he had told her, “you are the only woman who has not responded to my sexual charms!”

  Even then, when he had been mocking and cruel, and her heart had been breaking, Isabel had maintained a dignified silence. But in her heart she was glad she had resisted, although only she knew how hard it had been sometimes. At least she had her pride intact she told herself, she hadn’t been just another scalp for him to hang on his belt. She was the one conquest who had managed to get away relatively unscathed!

  All these thoughts milled chaotically around in her mind as she walked, but strangely she found she was thinking of Hugh Sinclair without the stab of pain it had always given her previously. Perhaps it’s because I’m so far south
, she thought with a faint smile, his presence can’t reach me here! Although she was slightly disconcerted to find that instead of Hugh Sinclair’s face floating before her mind’s eye, it was that of another man, another anaesthetist, Dr Mike Blakeney!

  Grinning to herself, she strode along; at least Mike Blakeney wasn’t a breaker of women’s hearts, quite the opposite in fact, a misogynist. He, so she had been told, hardly ever looked at a woman, and idly she found herself wondering about the woman who had apparently broken his heart.

  It was an intriguing story, not the least because Mike Blakeney didn’t look the type of man who could have his heart broken by anyone. Probably only hospital gossip, she concluded, he’s just the naturally bad-tempered type! A self-centred man, who thinks of nothing beyond the confines of his anaesthetic machine and the operating theatre. She had met doctors like that before, they thought that nothing existed outside medicine!

  She had been walking briskly along, without any particular destination in mind, when she saw the pretty, thatched pub at the end of the road. It seemed like a good idea to treat herself to a drink before the long walk back to the hospital. After buying a glass of wine and a packet of crisps at the bar, Isabel wandered out into the garden at the rear of the building.

  The garden wasn’t crowded, just a few people and children out there. Trellis work, smothered with climbing roses, provided screens that gave sections of the garden privacy. The lawn, surrounded by the heavily perfumed roses, sloped down to a small river, and Isabel decided to sit in peace, by the smoothly flowing water, to have her drink.

  As she stepped through a bower of roses, she suddenly became aware of the lonely looking figure of a man sitting on the left of the garden. It was the fact that he was alone, when everyone else was either in family groups or in couples, that made her look. But it was not just that. It was the way he was sitting. Shoulders hunched, a tankard of beer held between his hands, his head down, staring at nothing in particular. As she glanced at the figure a second time, she suddenly saw it was Mike Blakeney. Not the tall, self-assured, cool and efficient Mike Blakeney she had seen all day in theatre, but a tired, lonely-looking man, somehow touchingly vulnerable. But she restrained her natural impulse to go over and join him, suspecting that he would not welcome her intrusion on his obviously far from happy thoughts.