by Tina Beckett
But then, suddenly, standing at the door was Polly. Her white coat reached her knees, with the sleeves rolled up two or three times. Her freckles stood out in her still pale face, accentuating the flame of her curls, but her green eyes were flashing professionalism—and determination.
She was wearing a stethoscope around her neck. A red one. It was inscribed, he thought, fascinated. What the heck...?
Who had a personally inscribed stethoscope?
‘I’m sorry but I need you all to leave,’ she said and he stopped thinking about personalised stethoscopes and stared at her in amazement.
He’d thought of her as small, frail, ill.
She sounded like a boom box with the volume turned up full.
‘I’m Dr Hargreaves and I’m here to organise the death certificate,’ she said so loudly that she cut across arguments, squashing the gathering that was threatening to become a riot. ‘Dr Denver has asked me to confirm his diagnosis and I have limited time. I need the immediate next of kin. Who’s that?’
After a moment’s stunned silence Isobel put up a timid hand.
Polly nodded. ‘You can stay. Everyone else must leave.’
‘Why?’ the oldest of the arguing men demanded. ‘What the...?’
‘If you wish to avoid a coroner’s inquest and possible autopsy then this is what has to happen.’ Polly glanced at her watch. ‘My time is precious. Could you leave now?’
‘You’re the doc who got bitten by a snake.’
‘Yes, which has pushed my workload to crazy limits before Dr Denver leaves on vacation. Go now, please, or I’ll be forced to request an independent assessment from Sydney.’
‘When can we come back?’
‘When I’ve made my assessment and, since I’ve never treated this patient, it may be a while. I suggest...’ She hesitated and looked at Isobel, and then at Hugo.
‘This is Isobel,’ Hugo told her, starting to enjoy himself.
‘I suggest Isobel will tell you when it’s possible,’ Polly continued smoothly. ‘Meanwhile, my apologies for the inconvenience but you have two minutes to say your goodbyes before I must start work.’
‘We’re family,’ the closest guy muttered and Polly nodded.
‘I can see that, and my condolences, but I’m afraid Isobel needs to face this alone.’
And then she stood back and crossed her arms and waited.
She was superb, Hugo thought. If he didn’t know she was talking nonsense—in truth he’d already signed the death certificate—he’d have been totally taken in.
‘Why do you need to worry about a death certificate?’ one of the men demanded. ‘He just died of old age.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ Polly snapped. ‘How old are you?’
‘I...seventy-two.’ There was something about Polly that said Don’t mess with me, and the guy clearly got it.
‘So you’re older than your prescribed three score years and ten. If you drop dead now, surely you’d expect us to dignify your death with a diagnosis. Not just dismiss it as old age.’
‘Yes, but...’
‘But what? Do extra years mean fewer rights, less respect?’
‘No, but...’
‘Then please leave and let me get on with my work.’ And, to Hugo’s further astonishment, she stared at her watch and started toe tapping. Less than one minute later the room was clear and the door closed behind them.
As the door closed Isobel gave a muffled sob and crossed to the bed and hugged her father.
How had Polly understood this? Hugo thought, stunned. How had she figured so fast that Isobel desperately needed time alone? That sometimes family wasn’t wanted.
‘We’ll come back in an hour,’ he said gently and touched Isobel’s shoulder. ‘Or earlier, if you want. The bell’s here. Just press it if you need it.’
Isobel’s tear-stained face turned up to them. ‘Thank you. I didn’t think... When I got the call to say he was going I rang Henry to ask him to feed the dogs and suddenly they were all here. I didn’t even know they knew the contents of the will. And...’
‘And it doesn’t matter,’ Hugo said gently. ‘All those things can be sorted later. I think it’d be a good idea if we got Ron Dawson—he’s your dad’s lawyer, isn’t he?—to take responsibility for any questions. If anyone asks, just say Ron’s in charge. No more questions, Isobel. No more worry. For now it’s simply time to say goodbye to your dad.’
And he ushered Polly out of the room and closed the door behind them.
Wherever Isobel’s obnoxious family were, they were no longer here. The silence after the din was almost tangible.
Joe came round the corner from the nurses’ station, his arms above his head in a gesture of triumph. ‘You’re a champ, Doc Hargreaves,’ he boomed. ‘A clean knockout. You can come and work here any day.’
‘Did you set that up?’ Hugo asked faintly and Joe grinned.
‘All I did was tell Polly that you and Isobel were surrounded by a rabid pack of mercenary relatives and she went off like a firecracker. I listened from out in the corridor. Did you ever hear anything like it? A couple of them asked how long before they could go back in and I said our Doc Hargreaves is known for thorough work. A detailed examination, pathology, maybe even scans. It could take until tomorrow.’
‘Scans...’ Hugo managed and Polly grinned happily up at Joe and Joe high-fived her with her good hand and suddenly Hugo was left feeling a bit...
Jealous? Jealous of his fifty-year-old head nurse high-fiving his colleague? He had to be kidding.
‘Of course, scans,’ Polly said happily. ‘You have to scan a patient very thoroughly when you’re looking for cause of death.’ She tugged up her jeans and held up her still swollen foot. ‘If you hadn’t scanned me you might have missed the snake bite. See? Two little holes. Scans are vital and they can take as much time as Isobel needs.’
Hugo choked. Joe guffawed and high-fived Polly again then a bell rang down the corridor and Joe took himself off and Hugo was left with Polly.
She was amazing.
She was gorgeous!
‘So,’ she said, turning brisk again. ‘Are you going to show me your hospital?’ And she was back to being a colleague, purely professional, except her coat was too big and her hair was too red and her toenails were crimson and...
And she was a colleague.
‘Sure,’ he said and managed to do a decent professional tour of his hospital without once—or maybe once but that was professional, as she bumped her leg on a trolley and he had to make sure the swollen ankle was still okay—looking at those amazing toenails.
And she was terrific. Any doubts he might have had about her ability to care for the medical needs of Wombat Valley were put to rest fast. She was just...right.
He now had four patients in his nursing home beds—yes, Max had just died, but over the last twenty-four hours he’d had two new admissions. Christmas often did that. The family was heading away for the holiday, Dad couldn’t cope on his own and the easiest solution was respite care. Or a lonely senior citizen was suddenly overwhelmed with the memories of Christmases past and got chest pain or stopped eating, or even forgot normal care and fell...
Hazel Blacksmith was one such lady. She’d fallen chopping her firewood last night. Her hip had proven to be badly bruised rather than broken but she lay in bed, a ball of misery, refusing to be comforted.
But Polly didn’t acknowledge misery. ‘Hey, how lucky are you?’ Polly demanded as Hugo introduced her and explained the diagnosis. ‘Just a bruised hip? If someone made me chop wood I’d probably end up suffering from amputation from the knee down.’
‘I’ve chopped wood all me life,’ Hazel told her in a firmer voice than Hugo had heard since her neighbour had brought her in. ‘I don’t cut meself.’
�
�And you don’t get bitten by snakes either, I’ll bet,’ Polly said. ‘Wise woman. Look at this.’ And she stuck her leg in the air for Hazel to see her snake bite.
‘I heard you got bit,’ Hazel said cautiously.
‘It was Dr Denver’s fault.’ Polly cast a darkling look at Hugo. ‘He trapped the snake with his shenanigans in the truck, so when I went to rescue them it was ready to attack.’
And Hazel’s lips twitched. ‘Shenanigans...’
‘Men,’ Polly said. ‘You can’t trust them to do anything right. Holding snakes by the tail is the least of it. Would you mind if I had a look at your bruise? I’ve much gentler hands than Dr Denver.’
They were gentle. Hugo watched as Polly performed a careful examination of the old lady—a scan? She gently probed and teased and by the end of the examination the old lady was smitten and Hugo was getting close himself.
What a gem! He would be able to go away for Christmas and leave the hospital in her charge.
But...why did going away for Christmas suddenly not seem as desirable?
‘Are you staying in for Christmas?’ Polly asked cheerfully as she tucked Hazel’s bedclothes back around her and Hazel looked brighter than she had since Hugo had admitted her.
‘Dr Denver thinks I should.’
‘Then I concur,’ Polly said warmly. ‘But I need to warn you, the Christmas dinner menu here is looking a bit dodgy. However, we have three more days. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll ring my mother’s chef and get some advice.’
‘Your mother has a chef?’ Hazel sounded stunned.
And Hugo was stunned as well. Not only did this woman come from a privileged background, she was happily admitting it.
‘Doesn’t everyone’s mother?’ Polly said happily. ‘Left to my own devices, I’m a beans on toast girl, but this is Christmas. We all have to make some sacrifices, and ringing Raoul might be the least of them. Just as long as he promises not to tell my mother where I am.’
* * *
She wasn’t making sacrifices at all, Polly thought happily as she sat on the veranda that evening. She was about to have a very good time.
Her ankle still hurt. Her hand ached, but not so much as to mess with her equanimity. This was a beautiful little hospital, full of easy patients, and she was pretty sure she could cope.
Her silver tree was up in the living room, surrounded by origami gifts and a few real ones as well.
Hamster was lying by her side on the top step. He was due to head back to his temporary carer’s but she intended to have a word with Hugo about that. She wouldn’t mind Hamster staying here for Christmas as well.
She’d do a bit of online shopping, she decided. If she paid enough for express postage, she could get heaps of good stuff here. Lots of treats for her coterie of oldies in the hospital.
Would Isobel like to come too? Maybe she could take her tree over to the hospital and have Christmas dinner over there?
Maybe she could wear her little red alpine dress and the wig with the blonde pigtails. And her crimson boots and the Santa hat. She just happened to have packed them.
She grinned. Three suitcases... A girl could never be prepared enough.
The screen door opened behind her and Hugo emerged carrying two mugs of tea. She nudged over on her step, heaving Hamster to the side as well, and he sat down beside her.
Ma and Pa Kettle, she thought, and the feeling was sort of...okay.
More than okay. Good.
She liked this man.
Actually...
Um...don’t go there. He’d be gone before Christmas. He’d come back in the New Year, she’d do a quick handover and then she’d have no reason to see him again.
Her bounce faded a little as she took the offered mug and she gave herself a swift inward kick. What was she thinking? Having fantasies about a man who was so steeped in domesticity he couldn’t get out of this valley?
Falling for a man who was committed to love?
Love was what she was running from, she thought dryly. Love was why she’d packed her car and headed for the hills.
Love was chains, blackmail, guilt. Love was your mother watching every mouthful you ate and mentally counting insulin dosages. Love was catching your boyfriend phoning in to report how you were— ‘She’s great, Mrs Hargreaves, and of course I’m looking after her. No, of course I won’t let her get tired...’
Toerag. She glowered at the absent Marcus and took her tea and stared morosely out into the dark.
‘Hamster been annoying you, then?’ Hugo asked mildly and she caught herself and managed a rueful smile.
‘Not so much.’
‘Are you hurting? How’s your...?’
‘Don’t you dare fuss!’
‘Okay,’ he said cautiously.
Silence.
It wasn’t bad tea. Good and hot.
It was very hard to appreciate tea when Hugo was sitting beside her.
‘Where would you be now?’ she asked, suddenly needing to know. ‘If it wasn’t for Ruby.’
‘Sydney.’
Of course. ‘Working?’
‘Possibly. If I wasn’t on call, though, I’d be in a supper club around the corner from the hospital. It has a roof top bar that overlooks the harbour. Most of my friends use it.’
‘And you miss it?’
‘What do you think?’
‘And your work? Your surgery?’
‘Almost more than I can bear,’ he said and she flinched at the sudden and honest sound of gut-wrenching loss.
‘So why don’t you take Ruby back to Sydney?’
‘If I had Ruby in Sydney, do you believe for a moment that I’d be in the supper club?’
‘You could get a housekeeper.’
‘Yes, I could. The problem is that I love Ruby.’
‘She’s prickly.’
‘Tough to love. She is. She lets me, though. Inch by inch.’
‘Is it worth it?’
‘What, hoping for Ruby’s love in return?’
‘I guess,’ she said, doubtfully though, because she wasn’t quite sure where she was going with this.
‘I don’t have a choice,’ Hugo said gently. ‘And I can’t count its worth. I met Ruby when she was two days old. My sister was in a mess. I was called to a hospital up in Darwin because Grace was drug addicted and unable to cope. She went into rehab. I took four weeks off work, then my parents took over. But for those four weeks...I held Ruby in the palm of my hands—literally—and she’s been there ever since.’
And what was there in that to make her tear up? Nothing, she thought, frantically sniffing, and Hugo handed her a tissue and she thought this was just the sort of man who walked round with spare tissues in his pocket because something about him made you...made her...
Back off. She needed to back off. She’d been here for less than three days and suddenly it seemed as if a fine gossamer web was closing around her. The web she’d run from.
A trap, every bit as claustrophobic as the one Hugo found himself in.
She stood up, so suddenly she splashed tea on Hamster, who looked up reproachfully and then started licking the tea from his paws.
Hugo looked up too, but not reproachfully. It was as if he understood where she was coming from.
And that was a scary thought all by itself.
‘I should go to bed,’ she said a bit shakily and he nodded.
‘You should.’
And then his phone rang.
He answered it, listened, then clicked it closed and rose as well.
‘Work?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Anything I can help with?’
‘You’re going to bed.’
‘Is that an order?’
&n
bsp; ‘Um...no.’
‘So tell me.’
‘Groin and knee injuries,’ he said. ‘Terry Oakshot. Local farmer and amateur footy player. Late twenties. This sounds like a party prank gone wrong. His mates are bringing him in now.’
‘I’ll stay up until I see what the problem is.’
‘No need. If I can’t handle it I’ll send him out.’
‘Evacuate when you have two doctors?’
‘If I need to evacuate, I’ll evacuate.’
‘Of course you will,’ she said warmly. ‘But if it’s not too complicated, don’t forget I’m not just a pretty face.’ She grinned and took his mug. ‘Okay, Doc Denver, you go see what the problem is, but yell if you need me. I’ll go put my feet up and garner strength for the onslaught to come. Ooh, I wouldn’t mind a good onslaught. I’m a wee bit bored.’
CHAPTER TEN
ONE LOOK AT the mess that was Terry Oakshot’s knee confirmed that he needed a surgeon skilled in reconstruction. The blood supply wasn’t compromised, though. There was no need for immediate intervention for his knee. He needed decent pain relief and transport as soon as possible to the experts in Sydney.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t his knee that was causing Terry to whimper. He was clutching his groin in agony.
It would be agony too, Hugo thought, as Joe helped examine him.
A fast conversation with the mates who’d brought him in had given him all the information he needed. The boys had been having a pre-Christmas party in the footy ground’s stadium. After a few beers someone had shouted for Terry to come down to ground level to kick the footy. After a beer or six, Terry had decided there was a faster way than the stairs and he’d tried to slide down the banister.
It hadn’t been a good idea. Terry had smashed groin first into the bottom post, then toppled onto the wooden stairs. The knee was bad. His groin was worse. One side of his scrotum was swollen and cut, and one testicle was higher than the other. The less injured side didn’t look too good either, and Terry was retching with pain.
‘What’s going on?’ he moaned as his wife arrived. Maree was in her early twenties and seemed terrified. She looked as if she’d been baking. Her face was streaked white with flour, and it was whiter still with shock.
