Marion Lennox - The Doctor’s Special Touch

‘Ally…’

She sighed. ‘Oh, goody. It seems I’m going to be insulted all the way home again, too. OK. I’ll stay. I might have to find someone here I can insult in turn.’

‘Please.’

‘I know.’ She shrugged but then she smiled again. ‘Not appropriate. You don’t need to worry. I’ll be good. You’ll hear no value judgements from me. I won’t charge anyone for massage. I’ll do no harm. It was a truly excellent thick-shake and they were wonderful sandwiches, Dr Rochester. They were even worth being good for.’

THE hut they entered was a shock.

She’d forgotten how appalling it could be. Ally walked through the door and the first thing that hit her was the smell.

Smells. Plural.

There were pigs hanging round the yard, and a pile of dung by the door was attracting flies, inside and out. Smoke permeated the room, with the vague smell of hundreds of past meals-not all of them appetising. And human smells.

There was a lot to be said for deodorant, Ally thought grimly as the stench reached out to hit her. Then she amended the thought. No. There was a lot to be said for washing.

The smell was overpowering. And the sensation that the past was closing in on her.

Unaware of the vast wash of remembrance flooding over his companion, Darcy didn’t pause. Clearly he’d been here before. He didn’t knock-there was no door, just a gap in the timber slabs that made the wall.

‘How are they?’ he asked before Ally even had time to get used to the gloom. There was a fire smouldering in the centre of the hut, and smoke was wisping up toward a rough hole in the centre of the roof. Not all of it was escaping.

It looked like something out of the Stone Age, Ally thought, and had to swallow and swallow again as she fought for control. It was just like…just like…

A figure emerged from the gloom, a woman, skirt to the floor, hair braided down her back, dirty and…a little bit desperate? She’d been sitting on one of the benches that ran around the walls, and from under a bundle of blankets came a thin, despairing cry.

A sick child? It was a little girl, Ally decided as her eyes adjusted to the smoke-filled room. The child looked about six or seven. Her face was colourless and her sandy curls were a tangled mat on the hessian sack that served as a pillow.

The woman didn’t greet Darcy. She didn’t look at him. She stood, her shoulders slumped in a stance of absolute despair, and she stared at the floor. ‘Jody’s worse,’ she whispered.

Dear heaven. Ally was almost overwhelmed with disbelief. That this could be happening again…

Darcy was already kneeling by the child. He motioned back toward Ally. ‘This is Ally Westruther,’ he said briefly. ‘A friend.’

The woman lifted her head for a moment to glance apathetically at Ally, and then she stared at the floor again.

‘I can’t make her eat anything.’

‘Is she drinking?’

‘A little.’

‘Have you been doing the fluid chart?’

‘Yes.’ She pulled a tatty piece of paper from her pocket and Darcy studied it with concern.

‘Hell, Margaret, she’s not even close to even fluid balance.’ He lifted the little girl’s wrist, but even from where she was Ally could guess that the pulse would be weak and thready. Sick kids-really sick kids-weren’t the ones that came into Emergency, crying. They were silent and limp and scary.

‘How long’s she been like this?’ she asked, and the woman cast her a distracted glance.

‘Three days now. The other two are a bit better.’

‘That’s something.’ Darcy was putting a thermometer under the little girl’s armpit. ‘You mean they’re eating and drinking again.’

‘Yes. But Marigold’s arm looks really red-she’s been scratching so much we can’t stop it getting infected. She says it hurts under her arm as well, and in her neck.’

‘Hell, you need to let me give antibiotics.’

‘He won’t let us.’

Darcy sat back on his heels. He waited in silence until the thermometer had had time to register.

A chicken wandered in the open door and started to scratch in the dust around the fire.

He lifted the thermometer free and winced.

‘It’s high, isn’t it?’ the woman said, as if it was a foregone conclusion.

‘She’s had high temperatures for almost a week. She’s not getting any fluid on board. Margaret, she must come to hospital.’

‘No. He won’t-’

‘He has to let her come. She needs an intravenous drip to get fluids on board. She needs antibiotics.’

‘Give her fluids here.’

‘You know I can’t. Margaret, look around. There are reasons the kids’ sores are infected.’

‘I can’t help it. We do our best.’

‘I need to see Jerry.’

‘He won’t-’

‘Jerry?’ Ally froze.

‘Jerry’s the head of the community.’ Darcy was totally occupied with the child but he talked to her over his shoulder. ‘There are three women and four men here, but Jerry’s the head.’

‘We do as he says,’ Margaret whispered.

‘Even if it means someone dies?’ Darcy demanded, and the woman gasped. He hadn’t referred to Jody by name but his meaning was unmistakable.

‘No.’

‘It may well happen.’

‘No!’

‘Then let Jody go to hospital. You’re her mother.’

‘Jerry says no. You know he says no.’

‘I’ll have to bring in Social Services.’

‘You know he won’t let them take her. Last time he went into the bush and stayed there. You know what happened then. And even if you report it…’ Her voice broke on a sob. ‘It takes weeks for them to do anything, and when they come he’s so reasonable and he makes them feel like everything’s under control.’

‘It isn’t though, is it, Margaret?’

‘N-no,’ she faltered. ‘But I’m only one. I can’t… The group decides.’

‘Lorraine’s Marigold is sick, too, and she’s just as upset.’

‘Lorraine won’t fight Jerry. Neither will Penny, and David’s sick, too.’

‘You must. You all must.’ But Darcy’s voice was weary, as if he’d had this argument a thousand times before.

But Ally was no longer listening.

She stared down at the sick little girl and she felt like she might explode.

Jerry. Jerome. Jerome was here?

‘Where’s Jerry?’ Ally asked-casually, but her voice was loaded. This whole situation… She might choke, she thought. After all these years.

‘He’s meditating,’ Margaret told her. ‘The men are. Penny and Lorraine are making dinner in the other hut.’

‘The other kids are there?’ Darcy demanded.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll see them.’ Darcy rose. ‘But when I leave I’m taking Jody with me, Margaret.’

‘You can’t.’

‘If I don’t…’ He glanced down at the little girl who was staring up at him with eyes that didn’t seem to be registering. ‘You know what will happen. It’s happened before.’

‘Sam was an accident.’

‘A burn that got infected. That I wasn’t allowed to treat.’

Ally stepped back and gripped one of the wall supports, leaning heavily against it. The room was spinning. She felt sick. Jerome Hatfield. It had to be him. In this place, after all these years.

And a little boy called Sam had died of burns. Dear God, how much more damage had he done?

‘He’s in the far hut?’ she demanded, and the woman looked at her, startled. The fury in her voice was unmistakable.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll talk to him,’ she said, and wheeled.

Darcy caught her before she reached the door. He’d moved like lightning, reaching her to grip her arm and stop her from going further.

‘Leave it,’ he said roughly. ‘I’ll see him.’