But is love like that? Does it just happen? Might he not have to go in search of it?
I get this far then realise I don’t want him searching for it. I forget my own qualms about what’s happening between us and decide I want him considering whether love might not be right here. I want him considering that the glitch might be more than just a glitch.
After four days! I’m scoffing at such truly scary thoughts, and GR’s talking, and I realise Gran’s returned and is asking about who organises home help.
‘I’d shift in myself to help him out, but I think he should get over this independence bee he’s got in his bonnet and sneaking in a proper paid helper while he’s injured might be the way to do it.’
She’s obviously talking about GR’s Uncle Charles and GR is agreeing with her, saying he can organise the help.
‘Of course you can’t,’ Gran tells him. ‘The hours you work, it’s a wonder you get time to eat and sleep. No, I’m here and not doing anything. Give me the name of the person to ring and I’ll arrange it.’
Further discussion on the recalcitrant patient so my mind drifts back to the kiss, while my body relives the delicious sensations it experienced.
‘We’ve got two Caesars booked for tomorrow at Merriwee. Do you want to do them?’
My brain snaps back to attention so suddenly it’s a wonder he didn’t hear it. If he’s talking Caesars it must be to me, not Gran.
He’s watching me, head cocked, grey eyes agleam, knowing damn well he’s caught me lost in my head again.
‘Caesars? We do Caesars? I didn’t think we delivered babies unless it was an emergency. Are these optional? Have the women asked for a Caesarean delivery? Do you do them on request?’
If he’s surprised by my flow of questions he doesn’t show it, though Gran, who’s walked away, is chuckling to herself.
‘We do them for women who are at risk in a normal delivery. One of tomorrow’s patients is having her third child. She broke her pelvis in an accident when she was young and the bones healed badly so they no longer have the ability to move during delivery. The second woman is having her second child. She retained the placenta after the birth of her first, and it couldn’t be removed manually so had to be operated on. It’s a hereditary problem so likely to happen with this second delivery. Given her history, it’s easier for her to have a Caesar.’
He pauses, as if waiting for a comment, and I try to think why we’re discussing this.
‘So, do you want to do them?’ he says, realising I’ve lost the conversational plot.
‘I’d love to,’ I tell him. ‘So you’ll do the consulting?’
He grins.
‘If there is any,’ he says. ‘Merriwee has a great woman doctor who seems more than competent at handling gynaecological problems. It’s one of the easiest towns we visit and, as a bonus, although we usually go on from there to Tarrayalla, there are no patients to see there so we’ll have an early day.’
He grins then adds, ‘That’s what I came to tell you. You can shop for boots tomorrow afternoon.’
He touches his hand to his forehead, as if tipping an imaginary hat, calls goodnight to Gran, nods to me and walks, soft-footed, back along the veranda and out the door.
To say I’m confused would be understating my mental state severely. And now Gran’s discovered I haven’t eaten the shepherd’s pie. I resign myself to this particular fate and sit down at the table—bedecked with the borrowed tablecloth—and eat.
Shepherd’s pie is not good brain food. It does nothing to clear the muddle in my head.
White chocolate, now…
Fortunately, Gran has a heap of information about Charles to impart, so I don’t have to contribute more than a few encouraging noises to the conversation.
A tall man with gorgeous blue eyes meets us at the airfield at Merriwee.
‘All the animals in town healthy, are they, Tom?’ GR asks him, then introduces me to Tom Fleming. ‘Husband of Dr Anna Fleming and local veterinary surgeon.’
‘The animals are healthy but I’m not so sure about Anna. She never complains, but I know she’s overdoing things. She’s been here over twelve months without a break, and though the Health Department keep promising her a locum, there never seems to be one available.’
Tom’s leading us towards his car as he talks, and continues airing his concerns as we head for town.
‘She’ll never get a locum if she waits for the department to appoint one,’ GR tells him. ‘She has to just announce she’s taking holidays and that’s that.’
‘Can you see Anna voluntarily leaving Merriwee without a doctor?’ Tom says. ‘She loves this town.’
‘I gather, as you’re doing the driving duties, you have a plan,’ GR says.
Tom grins.
‘I do indeed. Remember on your last visit you were talking about the O and G conference at Surfers Paradise in May? You were saying there were places set aside for rural and remote GPs to attend so they could hear people speak on the latest developments in your field.’
GR nods.
‘Well, she’d really love to go. It’s still six weeks away so there’s time to arrange a locum, and I thought if you put in a recommendation for her to attend, she’d kind of be forced to go, and we could have a holiday while we’re there.’
‘I can easily do that, but I’ll explain she’ll need locum cover out here when I speak to the department. That might carry more weight than her applications.’
Tom reaches out and claps him on the shoulder.
‘Thanks, mate,’ he says, and the heartfelt tone and familiar touch make me realise they are mates, these two. Either recent friends, or maybe going way back. And suddenly I feel a sense of loss.
Home-schooled by Gran, I don’t have friends who go way back. Even at university, I met up with Pete so early in the course I didn’t make many female friends there. Acquaintances by the bucketload, but friends?
GR would make a nice friend…
Tom stops at the hospital and we disembark. He toots the horn as he drives away, obviously wanting to appear totally uninvolved with the team.
‘You OK, Blue?’
I’m so startled by the question I look up and see concern in GR’s eyes. It disturbs me more than the usual teasing glint.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ That’s me on the attack again. ‘If you must know, I was thinking about the operations—about two sets of parents anxiously awaiting the births of their babies.’
I can practically feel my underwear singeing even though I have my fingers crossed behind my back.
Anna Fleming is tall, blonde, beautiful and utterly charming to boot. All the things I’m not. GR chats easily to her, Michael gazes adoringly at her, and she breaks down my resistance the moment she says, ‘What glorious hair. I know blonde is supposed to be a coveted colour, but it’s so anaemic compared to that vibrant titian.’
I babble something in reply, then meet my two very pregnant patients and the theatre nurse.
‘I’d love to assist, if that’s OK,’ Anna says, and I assure her she’ll be welcome. Then I glance at GR, thinking that if he was operating it might be a chance to talk to Anna about the conference, but he gives just the slightest shake of his head.
I know he can’t read my thoughts, but there’ve been so many occasions, right from when we first met, when it seems as if we’re attuned to each other. Weird, that’s what it is.
I explain to the women what’s going to happen. They’re friends and have opted to hear this information together.
‘Actually,’ one of them, Hope Harris, admits when the men go off to put on Theatre gear, ‘we thought it might be easier for our husbands if we did it together. My husband, Michael, has been at both my previous births, but Penny’s husband missed her first. He’s a contract harvester and was away when she had Albert.’
Albert? Who’d ever name a tiny baby Albert? I’m thinking, as I decide to do Hope first. Then I realise Penny’s husband was introduced to me as Al, so
assume he’s Albert, too, and tell myself not to be judgmental about babies’ names.
Two beautiful, straightforward Caesarean operations later, and the population of Merriwee has risen by two. Babies born this way look so much better, I’m thinking as I peer first into Samantha’s crib, then into Patrick’s. They are pink and gorgeous, having been born without the stress of passing down the birth canal with their mothers screaming abuse at the men who landed them in the predicament.
It doesn’t always happen—but in most cases, at some stage in a delivery, the woman remembers whose fault it is she’s where she is. In rational moments she’s probably prepared to take at least fifty per cent of the blame, but during labour it is always the man who’s responsible.
Samantha’s eyes open and their blueness mesmerises me.
‘Did you know before you opted to specialise in O and G that new babies broke you up?’
GR has appeared beside me, and obviously registered the soggy tissue I’m clasping in my hand.
‘I can’t help it—they’re so perfect,’ I tell him, refusing to pretend I’m not always overwhelmed by the newborn perfection. ‘And the answer’s no, anyway. I went into it because my mother died in childbirth. I know that doesn’t happen often these days, but she was neglectful of her health and it happened to her. I suppose, growing up knowing that I’d been, if only accidentally, responsible for her death, I wanted to do something to make amends.’
Silence from my companion. A silence that stretches so long I turn from the babies to look at him.
‘What?’ I demand, and when he doesn’t reply I snap at him. ‘I don’t over-sentimentalise it, it just happened. You asked for a reason and I gave it.’
He shakes his head.
‘I’m sorry—it was just the last thing I expected you to say. I did wonder about your closeness to your grandmother, but never for a moment imagined—’
‘That I didn’t have a mother?’ I shrug. I’m OK with this stuff—it’s just that babies make me cry. ‘I don’t have a father either. Well, not one who knows about me. But I’ve done OK. Gran brought me up, and Grandad was wonderful—even Uncle Joel did his bit.’
‘Of course,’ GR says, but he still looks shell-shocked.
‘There’s no reason why you would know any of this,’ I tell him. ‘Apart from the fact your parents had a happy marriage, I don’t know much about you.’
Actually, now I think about it, I do—I know about his Uncle Charles and dead Aunt Esme—but I battle on.
‘We’re colleagues, that’s all.’
But he shakes his head, and bends over to have a look at the babies.
‘I can understand why you’d avoid casual affairs,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m sorry I was so flippant as to suggest it.’
Now I’m shell-shocked. Why does he have to be so nice?
And since when is ‘nice’ bad? I ask myself, much later, when we’re heading back to Bilbarra for my first afternoon off. It’s already after two so it won’t be much of an afternoon, but I’m looking forward to seeing more of the town than the road to the airfield.
The plane rises, steadies out at its designated altitude and Merriwee is lost behind us. I’m watching the pilot as usual, so I’m the first to react when Bob slumps forward so his head is resting against the control panel. He doesn’t make a sound.
I know he sets the plane on autopilot as soon as we reach cruising altitude, so we aren’t about to nosedive. I unbuckle my harness and lean forward, my arms around Bob, to unbuckle his.
‘Let’s get him across so his head’s lying on Gregor’s lap,’ I say to Michael, who’s shocked into helping me ease the dead weight of the pilot sideways.
The plane, suddenly smaller, seems to tilt as we move in the cabin. Gregor’s grasped the situation to the extent he’s breathing air into Bob’s lungs while still trying to move him into a better position, but any other form of CPR is going to be close to impossible.
‘I’m going to take us back to Merriwee,’ I inform my fellow passengers. Michael’s green but pretending he’s all right, reaching forward to try to shift Bob’s body so either he or Gregor can do chest compressions.
Gregor’s eyes meet mine when he looks up to take a breath. I can read a thousand questions in them, but I answer only one.
‘I told you I’d flown planes like this.’
I’ve climbed over the seat and am balanced on Bob’s legs. We’ll have to come down very gently because there’s no way I can get into a harness. Behind me Michael releases the big breath he’s probably been holding since Bob collapsed.
‘This shouldn’t happen. The pilots have regular physicals.’ Relief starts Michael talking, then Gregor, who’s eased out of his seat and is wedged into what was his minimal foot-space, tells him to take over the mouth-to-mouth while he counts and depresses Bob’s chest.
The counting has a rhythmic cadence that makes me think something’s happening. I can see the airfield up ahead and grab the radio. Gregor always calls in our ETA to the hospital on the emergency channel ten minutes before we land, and Bob’s had no reason to change channels.
‘This is Foxtrot Oscar Golf, Hillary Green speaking. Our pilot has had a heart attack. We’re returning to Merriwee, and need an ambulance with a defibrillation unit standing by on the runway. ETA two-seventeen—that’s two-seventeen, eight minutes away.’
I pause then add, ‘Might be an idea to have the fire service there as well. I haven’t flown for a while.’
Gregor glances at me and I see the little quirk of his lips, so I know he knows I did it to lighten the atmosphere of panic in the plane. Although it’s true. I haven’t flown a plane this size lately.
Or ever.
‘Is he breathing by himself?’ I ask, glancing anxiously at Bob’s ashen face.
‘No, but he will be by the time we hit the ground, I promise you,’ Gregor says, while Michael, between breaths, complains about his choice of words.
The atmosphere is like that of an operating Theatre, where everyone is totally focussed on his or her job yet all use levity to keep the tautness out of fingers and the panic out of minds that are responsible for the life of the patient on the table.
I can see the ambulance screaming in as we descend, and imagine I can hear its siren. Behind it comes the fire truck, and I know it will be manned by men called hastily from their day jobs, so they’ll look like clerks and stockmen but will do whatever job is required of them.
I fly past the strip, coming in low, checking the windsock, thinking about how Bob did it earlier, then turn and let her almost stall, dropping swiftly until the wheels kiss the earth.
I thrust the engines into reverse to pull us up and Michael cheers, but Gregor is already opening the plane door as we slam to a halt, me clinging desperately to the controls. Then he’s out, dodging away from the propellers, racing to the ambulance, then dragging the trolley, set up with the defib unit, behind him.
The ambulance men follow in his wake, anxious but no doubt realising Bob means more to us than he does to them.
Michael has kept on breathing for Bob. It’s ten minutes since he collapsed. Statistically, if it’s less than ten minutes from cardiac arrest to defibrillation, the patient has a reasonable prognosis, but the odds get shorter with every minute after that.
Strong hands grasp Bob’s sturdy body and he’s lifted out. Gregor has the defibrillation paddles out, greased and ready to go. Michael rips Bob’s shirt open, men step back. Gregor shocks him once—a second time. I’m holding my breath and praying and making deals with God.
Bob’s body jolts, then one of the ambos gives a cheer. Time for intubation, for feeding oxygen into Bob’s depleted system. Time now to call for a medical evacuation, because he’s far from in the clear.
Eventually, the ambulancemen load the trolley into the back of their vehicle, Gregor climbs in behind it and they set off for the hospital. Anna will be waiting there, ready to test his blood, hook him up to machines, find out why his heart failed.
‘I doubt I’ll ever be airsick again,’ he says, newfound confidence shining in his face. ‘After thinking we were doomed to fly around up there until we ran out of gas and crashed, you saved the day, Hilly Dilly.’
He grabs me in his arms and we waltz around, celebrating the sheer joy of being alive.
‘You two flying that plane out of here or do you want a lift to town?’ one of the firemen asks.
Michael turns expectantly to me.
‘I’m not flying that plane anywhere,’ I tell the fireman, then turn back to Michael. ‘Not now, and not ever. I was talking nonsense—boasting—when I told Gregor I’d flown bigger planes than that. I did have my licence once, and I’ve been mucking around in planes since I was ten, but they were little mustering planes. I’ve never flown anything that size before.’
Michael faints, which causes yet another drama. I let the firemen revive him and hold him in recovery position. I’ve done my bit for Flying Obstetrician and Gynaecology Service personnel today.
A familiar vehicle approaches. Tom Fleming, heading back into town after spaying some cattle, has received a call from Anna to swing by the airfield and pick us up.
‘Can’t stay away from the place, eh?’ he says, as he walks across to greet us. ‘What happened?’
I explain because Michael’s still looking far from well.
‘You brought the plane down?’ Tom sounds too incredulous and I straighten up to my full five-five—I kicked off my sandals before climbing over the seat and they must still be in the plane.
‘I have had a licence,’ I tell him, ‘even if I haven’t had time recently to put in the flying hours to keep it up.’
‘Well done,’ he says, and guides me towards the car, and I’m pleased his hand, resting in the small of my back, hasn’t the same effect Gregor’s had. I’ve reached the letdown stage and, with knocking knees and a pounding pulse, feel in need of a little support.
Doctors in Flight Page 11
