Marion Lennox: In Dr. Darling’s Care

‘Five.’

‘Hey, who’s the doctor here?’

‘I am,’ he told her, and she paused, her syringe held to the light, and stared at the head in the mud.

‘You?’

‘Me,’ he told her, his face still obscured. ‘That’s who you just ran over. Your boss. I’m Harry McKay, Birrini’s doctor. You’re here to replace me while I go on my honeymoon.’

Silence. She managed to finish checking the syringe but she was operating on automatic pilot. She couldn’t focus on what he was saying and what was needed at the same time.

Medicine. Concentrate on medicine or she’d do something really stupid.

Seven and a half milligrams of morphine, she decided. When in doubt, compromise.

She swabbed his arm while he lay absolutely still. That fracture must be causing agony, she thought. He’d turned his head slightly and she could see the set look on his jaw.

Forget compromise. Forget he was a doctor. He was very definitely a patient. Ten milligrams of morphine whether he liked it or not.

She gave the dose subcutaneously, then moved down so she could work on his leg. She’d prepare the splint while she waited for the morphine to take hold.

‘Five minutes tops before you get relief,’ she told him.

‘I know how long morphine takes to work.’

‘I guess you do.’ Her mind was racing. ‘So…you’re really the doctor I’m coming to replace?’

‘I am.’

‘You’re getting married?’

‘Yep.’

‘Right.’ She frowned. She shouldn’t be talking to him like this. She should still be assessing him for shock. But it seemed he wanted to talk. To lie in the mud and think about what damage had been done… He’d be scared, she knew, but there was little reassurance she could give him until she could move him.

‘There’s no pain when you breathe?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘So no broken ribs?’

‘Apparently not.’

She ran her hands down his spine again-lightly. She wanted as much information as she could before the morphine took hold. ‘You can feel that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘No loss of sensation?’

‘No.’

‘No pain in your back at all?’

‘No. Only in my leg. And my head.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Yeah. Fantastic.’

‘Sorry.’ She managed a smile. She moved up and placed her hand over his, feeding him warmth she thought he’d be desperate for. She was wearing a light jacket but it was already soaked and it held no warmth at all. She needed a blanket. She always carried a blanket in her own car, but this was a hire car. She was lucky she had a medical bag. The bag had been provided by the locum service when she’d agreed to take on this job, but there was no blanket and he must be freezing.

‘I’m as strong as a horse. I’ll live,’ he said curtly, and she blinked.

‘That’s my job,’ she said mildly. ‘To decide that.’ But she smiled again and the tension eased off a bit. Despite his attempt at humour, he was gripping her hand as if he needed it.

‘This is stupid. My face is in the mud. I’m going to try and sit up.’

‘If you try and move before I splint your leg, your brain will be in orbit,’ she told him. She relented a little. ‘It mightn’t be that bad, but your circulation was cut off. I don’t want to risk the bones moving again.’

‘Compound fracture?’

‘Comminuted. The bones are right out of alignment but they haven’t broken the skin.’

‘That’s lucky.’ He tried to smile.

‘Yeah.’ He had courage. She’d have rolled herself off the edge of the cliff by now, she decided. The pain level in that leg would be dreadful.

And all she could do for the moment was wait. She sat on the road, holding his hand, forcing herself to stay still. To stay calm. The morphine would kick in soon and then she could work, but it wouldn’t hurt to wait.

Phoebe was in the passenger seat of her car, staring out with the desperation of a basset who’d been abandoned by the world. Too bad. Phoebe had caused this mess. It wouldn’t hurt her to wait either.

Her car was parked in the middle of the road, though. Maybe that was a problem.

‘No one’s likely to come.’ Harry was obviously thinking as she was thinking. ‘Not this way. Council’s doing road work and the road’s blocked at either end. That’s why I’m running here. I knew the road would be deserted.’ He thought about it a bit more and decided it didn’t make sense. ‘But it wasn’t deserted. How did you get through? The only way through is via the hills-not along the coast road.’

‘The coast road was open when I came last night.’

‘You came last night?’

‘I booked a holiday cottage half a mile south of here.’

‘You’re supposed to be staying at the hospital.’

This was one crazy conversation. He was trying to take his mind off the pain until the morphine kicked in, she decided. OK. The least she could do was help.

‘I can’t stay at the hospital. I have a dog. What do you think caused this accident?’

‘You have a dog?’

‘How’s the pain level?’

‘Horrible. Tell me about your dog.’

‘Phoebe’s stupid.’ She touched his hand again, gave it a quick squeeze and then released it, aware as she did of a sharp stab of reluctance to let it go. This comfort business wasn’t all one way, she thought ruefully. She’d had a sickening shock. She needed his presence as much as he needed hers. ‘The morphine should have taken by now.’

‘Not enough.’

She glanced at her watch and winced. It wasn’t going to get any better than this. ‘I need to splint your leg. How are you at biting bullets?’

‘Do you have a supply of bullets?’

‘Maybe not,’ she conceded. ‘I have a Mars Bar.’

‘I’d throw up.’

‘You’re feeling nauseous?’

‘Horribly.’

‘Don’t throw up until we get your face out of the mud,’ she advised, but she had to move. She lifted her branch and laid it along the back of his leg. It was awful. Rolled up newspapers, the emergency manuals said. They were generally antiseptic and rigid enough to hold. So where were rolled-up newspapers when she needed them?

She was wearing a light jacket-cotton. Formal business. Not enough to give any warmth. But as padding for the splint, at least it’d stop him getting slivers of wood in his leg.

She hauled off her jacket and twisted it round the wood. She laid the makeshift splint along his leg and then carefully started winding bandage along its length. It was impossible to operate in these conditions without shifting his leg slightly and she was aware by the rigidity in his body how much she was hurting him.

‘What sort of dog?’ he muttered and she grimaced. There was real pain in his voice. Maybe ten milligrams of morphine wasn’t enough.

‘Basset.’

‘Why do you have a stupid basset?’

‘I inherited her.’ He was using Phoebe to focus on something that wasn’t pain and she could do the same. ‘My grandma died three weeks ago. She left me Phoebe. I live in North Queensland. Phoebe’s the human equivalent of eight months pregnant. I can’t take her home until she’s delivered the pups. It’s hot up north and the heat would kill her, if she survived the journey. No kennel will take her this far into her pregnancy, and no airline will carry her, so I’m stuck here until the pups are born.’

Harry thought about that and bit on his imaginary bullet some more. ‘That’s why you applied to be my locum?’

‘That’s right.’

Now what? She had the splint in place now. The leg was fixed as rigidly as she could manage. The morphine would be working as well as it could.

It was time to move.

‘You’re sure no one’s likely to come along this road?’ she asked, and he grunted into the mud.