Читать книгу Relative Ethics - Caroline Anderson - Страница 4

‘How do I look?’

Elizabeth Jones glanced up at her daughter, and swallowed the lump in her throat. It was a big day for them all, but especially for Bron.

She forced herself to run her eye professionally and dispassionately over Bronwen’s slim, neat figure, from the glowing tumble of shining dark hair cut into becoming layers, down over the clean lines of the navy suit-jacket which hid the soft curves of her daughter’s slender figure and lent her an air of brisk efficiency, down the narrow navy skirt and the matching sheer tights to the neat navy pumps, and then back up again, to study the face, bravely confident and yet with a touch of uncertainty mirrored in the wide grey eyes.

‘Perfect.’ She cleared her throat, and tried again. ‘Just right. You look approachable and yet efficient. Have some breakfast.’

Bronwen shook her head. ‘No—oh, Mum, I couldn’t eat a thing——’

‘Bron, you can’t start your first day without a single calorie inside you. Now sit down and do as you’re told!’

‘Bully,’ Bron said softly, but she smiled and obeyed, struggling with a piece of toast and a cup of coffee.

‘Livvy still asleep?’ Her mother’s gentle query brought a flush of guilt and anxiety to Bronwen’s pale cheeks.

‘I didn’t like to wake her just to say goodbye. Oh, Mum, I’m sure she won’t really be scarred for life if I go back to work, but somehow—I just feel so wicked——’

Her mother laid her hand gently over Bronwen’s slim fingers, and squeezed reassuringly. ‘Don’t be silly—I went back to work, and you aren’t exactly scarred for life. She won’t go short of love, darling. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine together. Now get off to work before you’re late.’

‘I wasn’t fifteen months old, and you only worked part-time. I suppose I can always hand in my notice if it doesn’t work——’

‘Over my dead body!’ her mother chided. ‘Without your work you’re only half a person. You belong there, Bron. You need medicine—and medicine needs you.’ She walked Bronwen to the door, and gave her a firm hug. ‘Did I ever tell you how proud I am of you?’

‘Oh, Mum—I love you!’

Eyes misting with emotion, feeling the same tingling dread and anticipation as she’d had on her first day on the wards, Bronwen started her car and drove carefully the three miles to the Audley Memorial Hospital.

A new day, and a new start. Another chapter in her life closed. She stifled a pang of regret and dragged her mind away from the memory of a pair of vivid blue eyes the colour of a Mediterranean dawn, burning with passionate intensity, and a gravelly voice saying over and over, ‘I love you, Bron, I love you …’

Lies, all of it. Yet even so, she wouldn’t change a thing. And damn it, she still loved him, even after all this time and knowing the way he had lied. And there was Livvy, bright, vivacious, her tumble of gold curls framing a smiling face, and those incredible long-lashed blue eyes she had inherited from her father. For the thousandth time, Bron wondered where he was and how he was—not that she ought to care, but somehow hearts tended to go their own way.

She parked in the area set aside for medical staff, using the plastic card Jim Harris had given her to raise the security gate, and, squaring her shoulders, made her way through the door marked ‘Accident and Emergency’.

The smell hit her as she walked in, a sort of busy antiseptic smell composed of polish and institutional food and Hibitane, totally familiar and very reassuring. Her mother was right, this was where she belonged.

She walked on, past the doors marked ‘Staff Only’, round to the right, second door on the left. Here it was—Dr J E Harris. Drawing a deep breath, she rapped twice.

‘Come in!’

She opened the door and did as she was bidden, smiling to herself at the huge man sprawled like a teddy-bear across the chair and desk. He grinned, covered the mouthpiece of the telephone with one large paw, and mouthed, ‘Have a seat—won’t be a tick.’

She perched on the edge of the desk while he terminated the call, and then dropped his feet to the floor and stood with surprising grace, coming out from behind the desk to wrap her hands warmly in his.

‘Good to see you again, Bronwen. Welcome to the team. Come and get a cup of coffee and meet the others. They’ll be glad to see you—we’ve been awfully pushed just recently. Hell of a weekend, I gather. Pile-up on the A45—holiday traffic, I suppose. I was sailing.’

‘Very sensible,’ she said with a wry smile, and he laughed and patted her shoulder.

‘Nervous?’

She shrugged. ‘A bit. It’s been eighteen months. Dr Harris?’

‘Call me Jim, Bronwen. What’s the matter?’

She paused, unsure of how to word her unusual request. ‘It may seem silly to you, but I’d rather the others didn’t know about my daughter, if you don’t mind. There’s enough speculation about single women doctors without adding fuel to the fire. Of course, if you’ve already told them, it doesn’t matter——’

‘Tell ’em what you like, my dear. I’ve told them only that you’re joining the department—frankly, we’re so pushed they wouldn’t care if you had three heads!’

‘They would if I were a cannibal,’ she said with a grin, and Jim Harris chuckled and opened the door.

‘They’d probably line up to be nibbled by you. They’re a miserable collection of rakes, by and large, but good doctors nevertheless. Just don’t let them take themselves too seriously!’

He wheeled her down the corridor and into the staff lounge. Forewarned was forearmed, she thought as the two young men lolling in the chairs raised bleary faces to her and then stumbled to their feet, interest flickering in the sunken depths of their bloodshot eyes. How tired would they have to be before they failed to register a reasonable-looking woman? Bron wondered, and tried not to laugh at their enthusiasm as they squabbled amicably over who was giving her a cup of coffee.

It turned out to be academic because the loudspeaker on the wall squawked as they reached the coffee-pot, and they groaned and tossed a coin.

‘See you later,’ one of them grumbled, grabbing his white coat off a peg, and Jim waved at his retreating back.

‘That was Steve Barnes. This——’ he indicated the other doctor, who had forgotten about Bron’s coffee and slumped back down in a chair ‘—is Mick O’Shea.’ The loudspeaker squawked again, and Jim excused himself with a mild expletive and a muttered apology.

Bronwen crossed to the coffee-pot. ‘Hello, Mick. I’m Bronwen Jones. Can I get you a coffee?’

The Irishman raised his head and stared through her for a second, then forced his eyes to focus. ‘Thanks. That’d be great. What a bloody awful night!’

‘Grim, was it?’

He nodded, and sat up to take his coffee from her, gulping it gratefully. ‘So tell me, Bronwen, what’s a pretty little slip of a thing like you doing in a hell-hole like this?’

Bronwen laughed. ‘One, I am not a pretty little slip of a thing—I am at least three years older than you, Dr O’Shea—and I’m here to work, and two, it’s not a hell-hole, it’s a well-run, modern hospital in an idyllic setting.’

‘Well, it sure feels like hell this morning, and as for your being a whatever it was I said you were, I reserve judgement—even if you’re positively middle-aged!’

Bron shook her head and tried to look severe, but Mick’s eyes were closing again and his half-finished coffee was taking a nose-dive down the front of his shirt.

She caught it in the nick of time and eased his fingers from the handle of the mug. Mick murmured something unintelligible, and slid further down the chair, out for the count.

Finishing her coffee, Bronwen made her way out of the staff-room and out into the corridor off which opened the treatment-rooms. Middle-aged, indeed! Sometimes she still felt eighteen, young, shy and innocent, and the world seemed a terrible place, full of people tempting her with lies and platitudes; she shook her head and pulled herself together as Steve Barnes came out of one of the treatment-rooms with a laughing nurse at his side.

‘Ah, Dr Jones, I take it you got your coffee?’ he said with a grin, and stuck out his hand. ‘Steve Barnes, and this is Sister Hennessy—Kathleen.’

She shook the proffered hands, and introduced herself as Bronwen. ‘I left Mick crashed out on the chairs in the staff-room—he looked all in.’

Steve shook his head. ‘He had a bad night—lost two of his patients in the space of an hour. It’s his first SHO job; he only started on A and E four weeks ago, and he hasn’t got used to it yet.’

‘Do we ever?’ Kathleen asked drily, and Steve laughed shortly and without humour.

‘Point taken. I’m going up to breakfast—I’ll dig Mick out on my way. Nice to meet you, Bronwen.’

Kathleen gave Bron a steady look, and smiled. ‘Welcome to the madhouse,’ she murmured. ‘Come with me and have a look round—have you worked in A and E before?’

‘Yes, in Bristol, but not for eighteen months.’

Kathleen twitched back a curtain across a treatment-room door and folded a blanket on to the foot of the bed. ‘This is where we treat the walking wounded,’ she explained, and opened the door at the far end of the room. ‘The cubicles are open to the waiting-room through a door, and through the curtained opening to the corridor, so that we have access from both sides. It means that seriously ill patients aren’t treated or moved in view of the waiting area, which is a fantastic improvement on where I trained.’

She opened another door. ‘This is the plaster-room, and X-ray is opposite, with Orthopaedics through there, so it’s all very convenient. Surgical and Medical wards are the other way, Paediatrics upstairs, and Obs and Gynae are in another wing—quite a trek, but they tend to be admitted direct. And in here is the emergency treatment area for acute and cardiac cases. In our more pompous moments we call it the trauma unit! OK?’

Bronwen was quite definitely not OK. Confused, bombarded with facts, names, unfamiliar geography, and all on top of doubts about returning to work. She shook herself and straightened.

‘Where do I leave my bag, and what about a white coat?’ she asked.

‘See Jim. He’s in his office. Come and find me when you’re all set up—and don’t worry, you’ll soon get back into it.’

She grinned and walked away with the quick, businesslike stride of the professional nurse, quiet and no-nonsense. Bron had warmed to her on sight, and knew instinctively that the sister would do everything in her power to help her settle in.

With a sigh of relief, she made her way to Jim Harris’s office. Just as she was turning the corner, she heard a deep, masculine laugh that shocked her to her toes. It couldn’t be! Bron gave herself a little mental shake. She really must stop doing this, seeing him and hearing him in every tall, fair man she had seen for the past two years. Nevertheless, as she rounded the corner, she couldn’t prevent her eyes from scanning the corridor eagerly, nor could she prevent the ridiculous little stab of disappointment when he wasn’t there.

Ten minutes later, equipped with a bleep, a white coat and a locker key, she found herself plunged in at the deep end with an elderly man suffering from chest pain and acute breathlessness. She listened to his chest, and smiled and chatted while she took a history and observed him.

‘Do you find it easier to breathe sitting up? Yes, I thought you might. All right, Mr Davis, you just sit there like that for a minute or two and breathe nice and steadily through the oxygen mask, and I’ll get someone down to look at you.’

She detailed a nurse to stay with him, and found Kathleen Hennessy checking dressings in one of the other cubicles.

‘There’s an elderly man in three with what looks like LVF, but he’s in too much pain, and I don’t like the sound of his chest. Can we get someone to look at him?’

‘I’ll get the consultant down.’ Kathleen crossed to her desk and picked up the phone. ‘Dr Marumba, please.’

Bron, her face troubled, went back to her patient. He was, if anything, even more distressed, but she was reluctant to give him anything before Dr Marumba saw him, so she checked his pulse again and found it light and fast. His skin was damp, and he was obviously deteriorating rapidly.

She stepped out into the corridor again and looked up and down for any sign of another doctor.

Kathleen came up to her. ‘His wife’s here—do you want to talk to her?’

Bron nodded. ‘Yes—is there somewhere we can go?’

Kathleen showed her into the office and then moments later came back with a worried-looking woman in her late sixties.

‘Mrs Davis? Is there anything you can tell me about how your husband’s been feeling recently that might help us?’

‘Oh, Doctor! He’s been off for weeks—hasn’t wanted his food, and he’s never been a picky eater. Complained of his feet swelling, and feeling breathless, and yesterday he was sick again—then this morning I thought he was better, because he went out into the garden and picked some strawberries for breakfast. He’s been in the garden a lot recently, that’s how he’s got that lovely tan, but he hasn’t looked well, and the backache——’

Bronwen leapt up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Davis. That’s been most helpful. I’ll get a nurse to take you back to the waiting-room.’

She all but ran back down the corridor to the treatment room.

She took the nurse to one side. ‘How is he?’

The girl shrugged. ‘Not good. Chest pain seems to be worse. I’ve put him on a monitor.’

Thanks. Taken any bloods? I think we need a total chemistry and blood count. It might be his heart, but I’m putting my money on renal failure.’

‘May one ask why?’

At the sound of the impeccable Oxford accent, Bronwen turned and looked up—and up.

‘Dr Marumba?’

He clicked his heels and inclined his head with a slight smile. ‘Call me Jesus. Everybody does. You were about to tell me…?’

While he ran gentle but thorough hands over the frail patient, Bron repeated the symptoms—nausea, vomiting, backache, breathlessness, oedema, chest pain, and also the all-over suntan—and then delivered the coup de grâce.

‘He had strawberries for breakfast. Aren’t they supposed to be very high in potassium?’

He arched an eloquent eyebrow. ‘Clever girl. Well done. If it is renal failure, it may well have pushed him over the edge. Let’s get him in and then we can dialyse him PDQ if necessary.’

He turned to the patient, and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘OK, Mr Davis, I think we’d better have you in for a closer look at your problem. We’ll soon have you feeling better. I’ll go and have a chat with your wife now, and she can come in and sit with you until we take you up.’

He tucked a hand in the crook of Bron’s arm and gave her the benefit of a ten-megawatt smile that could well have been a monument to the success of some unknown orthodontist, but Bron would lay odds that the dentition, like the man, was totally without artifice.

‘Let’s get a coffee,’ he said.

Bron’s lips twitched into a grin. She’d bet he was a real heartbreaker. ‘Good idea.’ They walked down to Kathleen’s desk and arranged for Mr Davis’s transfer to ITU, then went into the staff-room.

While she poured the coffee, she studied Dr Marumba as he prowled around the room. He looks like an Olympic athlete, she thought, with that powerful build and those incredibly long legs. His ebony skin was in stark contrast to the gleaming white of his coat, and his eyes twinkled like jet. He took the proffered cup and that smile broke out again on his face, lighting up the corners of the room with its brilliance.

‘Tell me something,’ Bron said, eyeing this delightful giant over the rim of her cup. ‘Why Jesus?’

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Apart from the miracles I perform? Because it’s my name. True! They call the medical wards heaven—not usually in my hearing, and not usually in front of the patients—it’s been known to upset them!’

He gave a rich chuckle, and drained his coffee. ‘Back to the grind. I’ll go and talk to Mrs Davis. Good to meet you, Bronwen, and well spotted, by the way. I’ll catch up with you later.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, OK. Thanks for coming down—he was my first patient. And come to think of it, if I don’t get back out there, he could be my last!’

He laughed. ‘You could always come and work for me if Harris throws you out!’

He gave a jaunty wave and left, and, setting her cup down, Bron followed him.

The rest of the morning passed in a whirlwind of minor cuts and bruises, sprains, simple fractures and a very straightforward case of a child who had swigged an unknown quantity out of a bottle of cough medicine, and obligingly vomited with the aid of a little ipecacuanha.

His mother was relieved and grateful, and marched the little terror out to wreak further havoc.

‘I bet we see him again before too long!’ Kathleen laughed, and Bron found herself smiling. So far, so good.

‘All quiet now, Bron? Come on up for lunch, and meet some of the others.’ Jim Harris dropped a friendly arm around her shoulders, and gave her an affectionate squeeze. ‘How are you doing? Well done with that old boy—jolly good start. Marumba was very impressed. Clever of you to pick up on the strawberries. Here, dump your coat, forget reality for a while.’

He filled her in on the history of the building and the current state of the hospital as they went, and by the time they arrived at the staff dining-room she was totally lost again.

There was, predictably, a sea of new faces, all friendly and, she found, instantly disconnected from their names. I suppose I’ll sort them all out in time, she thought, and concentrated on smiling and avoiding too many questions about her marital status and past medical career.

When they had finished eating, Jim led her through to the coffee-lounge and sat her down with her back to the door.

‘Don’t mind, do you? Only there’s someone I want you to meet—you’ll be bound to work with him fairly soon. General surgeon—excellent chap. Started here about a year ago. He was senior registrar at Guy’s until then, and became a consultant at thirty-one. Meteoric rise, but he’s extraordinarily gifted. Ah, talk of the devil——’

‘As opposed to Jesus?’ Bronwen quipped, but the laugh died in her throat as Jim rose to his feet.

‘Oliver, I want you to meet my new registrar, Bronwen Jones. Bronwen, Oliver Henderson, boy-wonder of general surgery.’

In slow motion, frame by frame, Bronwen lifted her head and made herself meet the clear, steady gaze that had haunted her for almost two years—the longest, loneliest, most rewarding and challenging years of her life.

‘Hello, Bron.’ The voice like oiled sandpaper, deep and husky, rasped over her senses, leaving her nerve-endings raw.

She closed her eyes against the sensation, and felt the years slip away …