Marion Lennox - From Christmas To Forever?

Astonishingly, she giggled.

This felt okay. She could hear undercurrents to his attempt at humour that she had no hope of understanding, but she was working hard, and in the truck Hugo would be working hard, too. The medical imperatives were still there, but the flavour of black humour was a comfort all on its own.

Medical imperatives. The bag was the next thing. Horace had suffered major blood loss. Everything Hugo needed was in that bag.

How to get the bag down?

Lower it? It’d catch on the undergrowth. Take it down herself? Maybe. The cab, though, was much lower than the tray. There were no solid saplings past the back of the tray.

She had Hugo’s nylon cord. It was useless for abseiling—the nylon would slice her hands—but she didn’t have to pull herself up. She could stay down there until the cavalry arrived.

Abseiling … A harness? Nope. The nylon would cut.

A seat? She’d learned to make a rope seat in Abseil Rescue.

Hmm.

‘Tie the cord to the bag and toss it as close as you can,’ Hugo called, and humour had given way to desperation. ‘I can try and retrieve it.’

‘What, lean out of the cabin? Have you seen the drop?’

‘I’m trying not to see the drop but there’s no choice.’

His voice cracked. It’d be killing him, she thought, watching Horace inch towards death with no way to help.

‘Did you mention you have a kid? You’re taking your kid to the beach for Christmas? Isn’t that what this locum position is all about?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘Then you’re going nowhere. Sit. Stay.’

There was a moment’s silence, followed by a very strained response.

‘Woof?’

She grinned. Nice one.

But she was no longer concentrating on the conversation. Her hands were fashioning a seat, three lines of cord, hooked together at the sides, with a triangle of cord at both sides to make it steady.

She could make a knot and she could let it out as she went …

Wow, she was dredging through the grey matter now. But it was possible, she conceded. She could tie the bag underneath her, find toeholds in the cliff, hopefully swing from sapling to sapling to steady her …

‘Polly, if you’re thinking of climbing … you can’t.’ Hugo’s voice was deep and gravelly. There was strength there, she thought, but she also heard fear.

He was scared for her.

He didn’t even know her.

He was concerned for a colleague, she thought, but, strangely, it felt more than that. It felt … warm. Strong.

Good.

Which was ridiculous. She knew nothing about this man, other than he wanted to take his kid to the beach for Christmas.

‘Never say can’t to a Hargreaves,’ she managed to call back. ‘You’ll have my father to answer to.’

‘I don’t want to answer to your father if you’re dead.’

‘I’ll write a note excusing you. Now shut up. I need to concentrate.’

‘Polly …’

‘Hold tight. I’m on my way.’

IT NEARLY KILLED HIM.

He could do nothing except apply pressure to Horace’s shoulder and wait for rescue.

From a woman in a polka dot dress.

The sight of her from the truck’s rear-view window had astounded him. Actually, the sight of anyone from the truck’s rear-view mirror would have astounded him—this was an impossible place to reach—but that a woman …

No, that was sexist … That anyone, wearing a bare-shouldered dress with a halter neck tie, with flouncy auburn curls to her shoulders, with freckles …

Yeah, he’d even noticed the freckles.

And yes, he thought, he was being sexist or fashionist or whatever else he could think of being accused of right now, but he excused himself because what he wanted was a team of State Emergency Personnel with safety jackets and big boots organising a smooth transition to safety.

He was stuck with polka dots and freckles.

He should have asked for a photo when he’d organised the locum. He should never have …

Employed polka dots? Who was he kidding? If an applicant had a medical degree and was breathing he would have employed them. No one wanted to work in Wombat Valley.

No one but him and he was stuck here. Lured here for love of his little niece. Stuck here for ever.

Beside him, Horace was drifting in and out of consciousness. His blood pressure was dropping, his breathing was becoming laboured and there was nothing he could do.

He’d never felt so helpless.

Maybe he had. The night they’d rung and told him Grace had driven her car off the Gap.

Changing his life in an instant.

Why was he thinking about that now? Because there was nothing else to think about? Nothing to do?

The enforced idleness was killing him. He couldn’t see up to the road unless he leaned out of the window. What was she doing?

What sort of a dumb name was Polly anyway? he thought tangentially. Whoever called a kid Pollyanna?

She’d sent a copy of her qualifications to him, with references. They’d been glowing, even if they’d been city based.

The name had put him off. Was that nameist?

Regardless, he’d had reservations about employing a city doctor in this place that required definite country skills, but Ruby deserved Christmas.

He deserved Christmas. Bondi Beach. Sydney. He’d had a life back there.

And now … his whole Christmas depended on a doctor in polka dots. More, his life depended on her. If her knots didn’t hold …

‘Hey!’

And she was just there, right by the driver’s seat window. At least, her feet were there—bare!—and then her waist, and then there was a slither and a curse and her head appeared at the open window. She was carefully not touching the truck, using her feet on the cliff to push herself back.

‘Hey,’ she said again, breathlessly. ‘How’re you guys doing? Would you like a bag?’

And, amazingly, she hauled up his canvas holdall from under her.

Horace was slumped forward, semi-conscious, not reacting to her presence. Polly gave Horace a long, assessing look and then turned her attention to him. He got the same glance. Until her assessment told her otherwise, it seemed he was the patient.

‘Okay?’ she asked.

‘Bruises. Nothing more. I’m okay to work.’

He got a brisk nod, accepting his word, moving on. ‘If you’re planning on coping with childbirth or constipation, forget it,’ she told him, lifting the bag through the open window towards him. ‘I took stuff out to lighten the load. But this should have what you need.’

To say he was gobsmacked would be an understatement. She was acting like a doctor in a ward—calm, concise, using humour to deflect tension. She was hanging by some sort of harness—no, some sort of seat—at the end of a nylon cord. She was red-headed and freckled and polka-dotted, and she was cute …

She was a doctor, offering assistance.

He grabbed the bag so she could use her hands to steady herself and, as soon as he had it, her smile went to high beam. But her smile still encompassed a watchful eye on Horace. She was an emergency physician, he thought. ER work was a skill—communicating and reassuring terrified patients while assessing injuries at the same time. That was what she was doing. She knew the pressure he was under but her manner said this was just another day in the office.

‘Those bruises,’ she said. ‘Any on the head? No concussion?’

So he was still a patient. ‘No.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

‘Then it’s probably better if you work from inside the truck. If I work on Horace from outside I might put more pressure …’

‘You’ve done enough.’

‘I haven’t but I don’t want to bump the truck more than necessary. Yell if you need help but if you’re fine to put in the drip then I’ll tie myself to a sapling and watch. Margaret is up top, manning the phones, so it’s my turn for a spot of R and R. It’s time to strut your stuff, Dr Denver. Go.’