Marion Lennox - From Christmas To Forever?

‘You think we should yell at her about her shoes?’

‘I’m just saying …’

‘She was driving here in her sports car. You don’t need sensible clothes while driving.’

‘Well, that’s another thing,’ Mary said darkly. ‘Of all the silly cars for a country GP …’

‘But she’s not a country GP.’ He turned and took a moment to focus on Mary’s distress. Mary was genuinely upset on his behalf—heck, the whole of Wombat Valley would be upset on his behalf—but Polly wasn’t to blame and suddenly it was important that the whole of Wombat Valley knew it.

He thought of Polly sitting on her makeshift swing, trying to steady herself with her bare feet. He thought of her polka dot dress, the flounces, the determined smile … She must have been hurting more than he could imagine—those cords had really cut—but she’d still managed to give him cheek.

He thought of her sorting the medical equipment in his bag, expertly discarding what wasn’t needed, determined to bring him what was. Courage didn’t begin to describe what she’d done, he thought, so no, he wasn’t about to lecture her for inappropriate footwear.

‘Polly saved us,’ he told Mary, gently but firmly. ‘What happened was an accident and she did more than anyone could expect. She put her life on the line to save us and she even managed her own medical drama with skill. I owe her everything.’

‘So you’ll miss your Christmas at the beach.’

‘There’s no choice. We need to move on.’

Mary sniffed, sounding unconvinced, but Hugo swung open the door of the treatment room and Joe was chuckling and Polly was smiling up and he thought …

Who could possibly judge this woman and find her wanting? Who could criticise her?

This woman was amazing—and it seemed that she, also, was moving on.

‘Doctor, we may have to rethink the hospital menu for Christmas if Dr Hargreaves is admitted,’ Joe told him as he entered. ‘She’s telling me turkey, three veggies, commercial Christmas pudding and canned custard won’t cut it. Not even if we add a bonbon on the side.’

He blinked.

Snake bite. Lacerations. Shock.

They were talking turkey?

Okay. He needed to focus on medical imperatives, even if his patient wasn’t. Even if Polly didn’t seem like his patient.

‘The swab?’ he asked and Joe nodded and held up the test kit.

‘The brown snake showed up in seconds. The tiger segment showed positive about two minutes later but the kit says that’s often the way—they’re similar. It seems the brown snake venom’s enough to eventually discolour the tiger snake pocket, so brown it is. And I reckon she’s got a fair dose on board. Polly has a headache and nausea already. I’m betting she’s been solidly bitten.’

Hugo checked the kit for himself and nodded. He’d seen the ankle—it’d be a miracle if the venom hadn’t gone in. ‘Brown’s good,’ he told Polly. ‘You’ll recover faster than from a tiger.’

‘I’m feeling better already,’ she told him and gave him another smile, albeit a wobbly one. ‘But not my dress. It’s ripped to pieces. That snake owes me …’

He had to smile. She even managed to sound indignant.

‘But you’re nauseous?’

‘Don’t you care about my dress?’

‘I care about you more. Nausea?’

‘A little. And,’ she went on, as if she was making an enormous concession, ‘I might be a little bit headachy.’

A little …

The venom would hardly be taking effect yet, he thought. She’d still be in the window period where victims ran for help, tried to pretend they hadn’t been bitten, tried to search and identify the snake that had bitten them—and in the process spread the venom through their system and courted death.

Polly had been sensible, though. She’d stayed still. She’d told him straight away. She’d allowed the paramedics to bring her up on the rigid stretcher.

Okay, clambering down cliffs in bare feet in the Australian summer was hardly sensible but he couldn’t argue with her reasons.

‘Then let’s keep it like that,’ he told her. ‘I want you to stay still while we get this antivenin on board.’

‘I’ve been practically rigid since I got bit,’ she said virtuously. ‘Textbook patient. By the way, it’s a textbook immobilisation bandage too. Excellent work, Dr Denver.’

He grinned at that, and she smiled back at him, and then he sort of paused.

That smile …

It was a magic smile. As sick and battered as she was, her smile twinkled. Her face was pallid and wan, but it was still alight with laughter.

This was a woman who would have played in the orchestra as the Titanic sank, he thought, and then he thought: Nope, she’d be too busy fashioning lifelines out of spare trombones.

But her smile was fading. Their gazes still held but all of a sudden she looked … doubtful?

Maybe unsure.

Maybe his smile was having the same effect on her as hers was on his?

That would be wishful thinking. Plus it would be unprofessional.

Move on.

Joe had already set up the drip. Hugo prepared the serum, double-checked everything with Joe, then carefully injected it. It’d start working almost immediately, he thought; hopefully, before Polly started feeling the full effects of the bite.

‘How are you feeling everywhere else?’ he asked, and she gave a wry smile that told him more than anything else that the humour was an act. Her freckles stood out from her pallid face, and her red hair seemed overbright.

‘I’m … sore,’ she admitted.

‘I’ve started cleaning the worst of the grazes,’ Joe told him. ‘She could do with a full bed bath but you said immobile so immobile it is. There’s a cut on her palm, though, that might need a stitch or two.’

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