Priority Care

by Mary Hawkins

  'A few times with George,' she managed to say quietly despite the lump in her throat. 'And we were going to talk about him, weren't we?'

  There was silence as they skirted a large clump of seaweed. A slight breeze stirred the reflections in the water. Jean shivered a little. Chris let go her hand and slipped his arm around her shoulders, holding her closer to his body. She tensed. But he ignored that, and remained silent for quite a while as they trudged across the firm, wet sand left by the tide. Despite herself her body gradually relaxed into the curve of his, as his warmth spread through her.

  'Peggy said she warned you that George still required quite a bit of care at night,' he said slowly at last.

  'Yes, but I ‑' she began eagerly.

  'But you'll get too tired, and that will worry the life out of him, as it has for months.' He ignored her protest, and continued firmly, 'I'll only agree to discharge him if you can make arrangements to have help with him.' He hesitated, and then said a little diffidently as he gazed across the water, 'I've given a lot of thought to it, and I've come to the conclusion that Dan was wrong.'

  Jean stumbled over a piece of driftwood.

  'What . . . what about?'

  'You never had to get a loan to buy the house, did you?'

  She stopped walking, and turned to stare warily at him. His arm slipped away from her as he stared thoughtfully back at her.

  'You see, I realised very quickly that no one would lend money to someone like you without a full-time job. Then I remembered you saying once something about your father being a successful businessman.'

  She continued to watch him as she nodded briefly. He stared silently at her with his eyebrow cocked enquiringly, until at last she shrugged, and turned to continue walking, crossing her arms so that she could hold herself where the cool breeze was making goose-bumps on her upper arms.

  'Yes, you're right,' she said with a trace of bitterness. 'I inherited money from the man I thought for eighteen years was my father. Who never, in all the time I knew him, gave me a fraction of the love and care my real father has poured out on me. But he did leave me his money. The only thing he ever really loved.'

  'So there's still some left?' Chris asked softly as he kept pace with her.

  She gave a short, bitter laugh. 'Oh, yes, there's still some left.'

  She heard Chris give a sigh of relief. 'Good, that solves that problem, then,' he muttered.

  Jean glanced at him. He was striding along with a thoughtful look on his face. She almost blurted out just how much money there was left; that buying the house had hardly made a hole in it.

  'I can't for the life of me, though, understand why you didn't employ someone to help you these past few months.' Chris sounded puzzled, and a little angry.

  'Because I didn't want to use . . . use his money for George when he had caused us both so much unhappiness,' she burst out, unconsciously lengthening her stride. 'George always thought it was because his brother came along with his slick talk and stacks of money that my mother dumped George like a ton of bricks, and within a couple of weeks had married him before George even knew they had met. And . . . and she already knew she was . . was . . .'

  It was too painful to say out loud—the knowledge that her mother had acted like a tramp even way back then.

  'She knew she was expecting you?' Chris asked quietly.

  'Yes! Yes!'

  Jean shouted the words, and then started running as though she could outrun the sick feeling that always crept over her when she remembered the kind of person her mother had been. Only after George had shown her the birth certificate had she been able to begin to understand why her father had hardly ever touched his daughter, never kissed her.

  Heavy footsteps pounded after her. But she kept ahead of him until her breath was laboured, and she at last collapsed on a park bench a little way back from the water's edge. He stopped running a few paces away, and slowly walked to stand in front of her. He stared at her silently, and then turned his back.

  Breathlessly she watched him as he stood with his hands on his hips staring out across the lake. She longed to have the right to go to him. To slide her arms around his waist. To lean on his strength. To tell him she needed him so desperately to love her ... to love her more than anybody or anything . . .

  Suddenly he turned and looked at her. She hid her hungry eyes as he strode over and sank down beside her on the bench. He reached over and tilted her face up so that he could look steadily into her eyes. If her life had depended on it she could not have looked away.

  'Whatever happened in the past, I think it's just as wrong to fear having money as it is to love having it too much,' Chris said firmly. 'Isn't it about time you grew up and became mature enough to realise nothing can change the past, and realise the money could be used to make life so much easier for you both? The only condition I have for allowing George to go home is that you spend some of it employing someone to sleep in the house and help you both. And even after he comes back from rehab, you must have someone help you look after this huge old house and grounds.'

  Jean stared up at him helplessly. 'It did seem right to buy the house that was built by my grandfather . . . to help George,' she said slowly at last. 'And this is as much for him as me, isn't it?'

  'If what you said about George's brother is true, I think he was to be greatly pitied. He missed out on getting to know a very loving, beautiful daughter.'

  Jean caught her breath at the depth of tenderness in the warm brown eyes.

  'Money itself is not evil, only the love of it,' he insisted.

  'That . . . that's from the Bible, isn't it?'

  A strange expression crossed his face.

  'Yes, my dear.'

  She knew she couldn't look at him any longer without her yearning for his love to show in her face, and sprang up and wandered down to the water's edge.

  The breeze had strengthened. A few flecks of white foam were appearing as small waves washed against a small sailing boat moored near by. A large pelican suddenly flapped its wide wings and took off from the post the boat was tied to. She watched it slowly swoop and soar.

  'Sometimes you've got to be ready to catch the updraught,' Chris's serious voice said, and she turned to see that he was watching the huge bird too.

  He turned his head and their eyes clung. She saw him take a deep, quick breath and glanced quickly away, following the flight of the now circling bird as it moved further away.

  'Do you know how I go about getting the right person to ... to look after George?' she said at long last.

  'Somebody has already offered.'

  Jean swung around. 'She's got to be someone George will accept.'

  He suddenly grinned. 'Think he'd enjoy continued opportunities to spar with the honourable Peggy Howard?'

  'Peggy? But she's already got a job!'

  'Not anymore at the hospital, she says,' he answered cheerfully. 'She tells me she'd already resigned before I started. Was tired of working full-time. She's no longer needed at home as her own mother died last year, and no longer needs the money, but would like to keep her hand in with a few hours every week. She plans to go to England in a few weeks on a working holiday. And, what's more, this week is her last at the hospital. This Friday, in fact, is her last day at work, as Miss Fisher gave her the last two days off on the roster. What do you think?'

  She was staring at him with her mouth open. Hope was stirring and beginning to blossom.

  'Marvellous!' she gasped at last.

  He beamed at her. 'I thought so too.' Then he reached out and pulled her closer. She tensed, and he smiled ruefully and just brushed his lips across hers lightly, before letting her go.

  'Come on, let's hurry back if you've recovered enough from your sprint. I don't know about you, but I'm getting cold.'

  CHAPTER TEN

  By Friday afternoon, an absolutely delighted George was installed in his favourite chair in the lounge. The evening before, Peggy had moved some of her things into a be
droom across the corridor from George's room. She was coming to stay straight after she finished work. But Jean had found out the hospital staff were planning a surprise farewell afternoon tea for Peggy, and knew she would be later than usual.

  Jean had insisted that she would get up to George on his first night home, and Peggy had been forced to agree as she knew she would be weary after working all day. But when Peggy did arrive, she was flushed with excitement and very mixed feelings, due to saying goodbye to old working friends, and relief that she had finished the demanding job she had been doing for so many years as nursing unit manager. Jean suspected her expertise and caring nature would be sadly missed by the staff and patients alike.

  'Well, you old scoundrel.' Peggy beamed at George with her hands on her hips. 'It's just you and me, now.'

  George tried to glower at her, but grinned with delight instead.

  'No wheelchair in the house. Walk on tripod everywhere around the house,' Peggy ticked off on her fingers. 'Very little assistance with dressing, undressing, getting into and out of bed. That's what the boss man said we had to strive for.'

  George's smile dimmed a little at that. But the 'boss man' turned up a few minutes later, and told George and Jean himself with a very stern voice, belied by the twinkle in his eyes.

  'It has to be consistent. Remember, that's essential for retraining.' He turned to Jean, and shook a mock-reproving finger at her. 'And no spoiling by doting daughters when Peggy's back's turned.'

  Chris was often at their house during the days that followed. At first Jean thought it was just to keep an eye on George. But as the days passed it was a bittersweet feeling to realise that he intended to spend all his spare time with them.

  With her. If only that were true, she thought wistfully.

  Some evenings he stayed and shared their evening meal. Other times he came later, and they played cards together, even coaxing George to play a few hands. Several times she looked up to find him watching her carefully with an indefinable expression on his face. A couple of times he tried to coax her to go for a walk along the lake. He seemed to take her excuses quite well, until the next time he asked her in front of George and Peggy.

  'This stubborn daughter of yours needs the exercise, don't you think, George?' he said casually, after she had given him a rather lame excuse.

  George looked from one to the other, and nodded vigorously.

  'Go!' he said sternly.

  Chris had also been giving him a few simple word exercises. Jean wondered indignantly if this was one they had been practising, as she stared at them.

  'Look, I don't have the time to—'

  'Of course you do, young lady,' Peggy chipped in sternly. 'You've hardly left this house. Some fresh air will do you good.'

  Jean looked helplessly from one to the other, and then glared at Chris. His expression was carefully blank except for the gleam in his eyes as he watched her.

  'I suppose so,' she muttered ungraciously, and flounced off to get a jacket.

  It was a beautiful evening. The glowing colours of the setting sun were reflected in the waters of the lake. Chris reached out and grabbed her hand on their way to the shore, and just held it tighter as she tried to tug it loose when they reached the water's edge. A few yachts were in full sail in the centre of the lake, and Jean felt herself relax as she absorbed the beauty around her.

  They had been strolling silently for some time when she heard Chris give a sigh.

  'This is so peaceful,' he murmured, 'so beautiful. How I wish ‑'

  He stopped so abruptly that Jean looked up at his face enquiringly. He caught her glance, and gave a short laugh.

  'Just my dreams.'

  They were silent again. Only now Jean was wondering what his dream was. Would he strive for it so that everything else came last? Even a woman who loved him? She knew it was very unlikely that her dream could ever come true, her dream that they would always be together . . . that he would love her enough to include her as part of his dream ...

  They had reached the little park where they had talked before when she at last plucked up the courage to say, 'What is your dream, Chris?'

  He led her over to rest on the park bench. Then he let go of her hand, and sat beside her and stared out over the lake.

  'To have my very own geriatric rehabilitation centre.'

  He looked back the way they had come. His voice and face were wistful as he turned to her.

  'A pretty hopeless dream, I'm afraid.' He shrugged, and looked back across the lake. 'This would be such an ideal spot. So restful. So many places to take the patients for a break from their hard work of retraining.'

  He paused again, and she watched him with fascination.

  'Why, Chris?' she asked curiously. 'Why are you so interested in that line of medicine? Surely your training as a physician opens up many other more . . . more interesting areas?'

  'It was during my specialist training as a physician that I realised how much the ageing population was going to need more trained doctors for their special needs in the years to come. That's why I became a geriatrician.'

  'A geriatrician?' He raised an eyebrow at the surprise on her face. 'I didn't know you were a geriatrician!'

  He frowned as he heard the dismay in her voice. 'Does that worry you?'

  'N-no . . .'

  She looked away blindly. How could she tell him that finding out he was more highly qualified than she had known only increased her dismay that he must be even more ambitious than she had thought? And his dream would cost so much, not only in money, but time . . . effort . . .

  There was a tense silence.

  'I don't think I believe you. For some reason that does present a problem for you,' Chris murmured at last.

  She turned slowly and looked at him. He was watching her with a puzzled frown.

  'You're very ambitious, aren't you, Chris?'

  'Ambitious?' He studied her expression carefully, and then looked away. 'I've never really thought about it, I suppose.' He paused, and then said slowly, 'I've wanted to be a doctor as long as I can remember. And then . . . then a few years ago my grandfather died in Melbourne. I'd seen quite a lot of him over the years, but his last few years were spent in a nursing home after a stroke.' He turned to her, and gave a bitter laugh. 'Oh, it was a really great place, and he received wonderful care, but it wasn't his home he'd lived in all his life. And he wasn't even left as handicapped as George! There was only my dad and his sister. My aunt had remarried and was living overseas. My only cousin is the exact opposite of you. In fact, just as I first thought you were. Her budding career was too important to give up to devote her days to looking after an old man at home. Grandfather refused to come to live with my family in Sydney. Too far from his old friends, he told us. So he sold up his house, and took a pitiful handful of things into the nursing home.'

  He paused again, brooding silently. 'Part of the problem was that it takes so long to recover from a stroke,' he continued at last. 'There weren't enough beds in the local hospital for someone like him to stay for months. If he had been given enough time, I'm sure he could have improved enough to be able to go home and look after himself with community help. He just needed the right type of rehabilitation programme and follow-up. And even after he went to the nursing home . . .'

  He turned eagerly towards Jean. His eyes were glowing with enthusiasm as he continued quickly. The more his words spilled out, the lower her heart sank.

  'Most nursing homes can never afford enough staff to be able to continue any rehab programme for individual needs—arthritic handicaps, those who need to learn how to cope with their Parkinson's disease in its early stages, those who've lost a leg from cardio-vascular insufficiency, and oh, many others besides those who've had strokes. What I would love to do is have a special home for long-term patients where they can have all the rehabilitation they need, then have a nursing home as part of the complex they can-go to if they need to, a hostel type as they become more active, and then even
the separate one- and two-bedroom units which they can progress to with help at the press of a button until they have proved they can cope at home by themselves during the night, and . . .'

  His eager words died away. He bent his head and rested it on his hands, his elbows propped on his legs. Jean continued to watch him with fascination, but also with increasing hopelessness.

  'Your . . . your dream would need a lot of money, Chris,' she said very softly at long last.

  He sighed deeply. 'That's why I guess it'll always remain a dream.' He stood up, and kicked at a tuft of grass with his training shoes. 'But the dream won't go away. My head tells me it's all so impossible. But my heart . . . Dad has always drilled into me that nothing worthwhile should be thought of as impossible. Just some things need more faith and hard work.'

  She was staring down at her hands. She felt him turn to her, and she tensed.

  'But I do have another dream, Jean,' she heard him say huskily. 'I'm afraid it's becoming stronger every day.'

  Her heart leaped as he reached out, grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. . 'Jean, you're part of that dream . . .'

  She heard the longed-for tenderness in his voice. Her bones melted as he pulled her into his arms. Just this once, her heart pleaded. So desperately she needed this man to hold her, to comfort her. She needed him in every way a woman needed a man. Passionate desire darted through her entire body as she clung to him. But even as she felt his lips slide along her jaw and raised her face to his, she knew this feeling alone would never be enough for her.

  His mouth fused timelessly with hers. She yielded even further, and desperately put her arms around him, pulling him still closer. But that deep-down need for more began to rise uncontrollably. Only total commitment, putting her first, would satisfy her deepest yearnings and dreams.