Читать книгу From Christmas To Forever? - Marion Lennox - Страница 12

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.’

She pushed herself back from the truck and cocked a quizzical eyebrow—and he couldn’t speak.

Time to strut his stuff? She was right, of course. He needed to stop staring at polka dots.

He needed to try and save Horace.

Polly was now just as stuck as the guys in the truck.

There was no way she could pull herself up the cliff again. She couldn’t get purchase on the nylon without cutting herself. The cord had cut her hands while she’d lowered herself, but to get the bag to Hugo, to try and save Horace’s life, she’d decided a bit of hand damage was worthwhile.

Getting up, though … Not so much. The cavalry was on its way. She’d done everything she could.

Now all she had to do was secure herself and watch Hugo work.

He couldn’t do it.

He had all the equipment he needed. All he had to do was find a vein and insert a drip.

But Horace was a big man, his arms were fleshy and flaccid, and his blood pressure had dropped to dangerous levels. Even in normal circumstances it’d be tricky to find a vein.

Horace was bleeding from the arm nearest him. He had that pressure bound. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, but he needed to use Horace’s other arm for the drip.

It should be easy. All he needed to do was tug Horace’s arm forward, locate the vein at the elbow and insert the drip.

But he was at the wrong angle and his hands shook. Something about crashing down a cliff, thinking he was going to hit the bottom? The vein he was trying for slid away under the needle.

‘Want me to try?’ Polly had tugged back from the truck, cautious that she might inadvertently put weight on it, but she’d been watching.

‘You can hardly operate while hanging on a rope,’ he told her and she gave him a look of indignation.

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve rigged this up with a neat seat. So I’m not exactly hanging. If you’re having trouble … I don’t want to bump the truck but for Horace … maybe it’s worth the risk.’

And she was right. Priority had to be that vein, but if he couldn’t find it, how could she?

‘I’ve done my first part of anaesthetic training,’ she said, diffidently now. ‘Finding veins is what I’m good at.’

‘You’re an anaesthetist?’

‘Nearly. You didn’t know that, did you, Dr Denver?’ To his further astonishment, she sounded smug. ‘Emergency physician with anaesthetist skills. You have two medics for the price of one. So … can I help?’

And he looked again at Horace’s arm and he thought of the consequences of not trusting. She was an anaesthetist. They were both in impossible positions but she had the training.

‘Yes, please.’

Her hands hurt. Lowering herself using only the thin cord had been rough.

Her backside also hurt. Three thin nylon cords weren’t anyone’s idea of good seat padding. She was using her feet to swing herself as close to the truck as she dared, trying to balance next to the window.

There was nothing to tie herself to.

And then Hugo reached over and caught the halter-tie of her dress, so her shoulder was caught at the rear of the window.

‘No weight,’ he told her. ‘I’ll just hold you steady.’

‘What a good thing I didn’t wear a strapless number,’ she said approvingly, trying to ignore the feel of his hand against her bare skin. Truly, this was the most extraordinary position …

It was the most extraordinary feeling. His hold made her feel … safe?

Was she out of her mind? Safe? But he held fast and it settled her.

Hugo had swabbed but she swabbed again, holding Horace’s arm steady as she worked. She had his arm out of the window, resting on the window ledge. The light here was good.

She pressed lightly and pressed again …

The cannula was suddenly in her hand. Hugo was holding her with one hand, acting as theatre assistant with the other.

Once again that word played into her mind. Safe … But she had eyes only for the faint contour that said she might have a viable vein …

She took the cannula and took a moment to steady herself. Hugo’s hold on her tightened.

She inserted the point—and the needle slipped seamlessly into the vein.

‘Yay, us,’ she breathed, but Hugo was already handing her some sticking plaster to tape the cannula. She was checking the track, but it was looking good. A minute later she had the bag attached and fluid was flowing. She just might have done the thing.

Hugo let her go. She swung out a little, clear of the truck. It was the sensible thing to do, but still …

She hadn’t wanted to be … let go.

‘Heart rate?’ Her voice wasn’t quite steady. She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘How is it?’

‘Holding.’ Hugo had his stethoscope out. ‘I think we might have made it.’ He glanced into the bag. ‘And we have adrenaline—and a defibrillator. How did you carry all this?’

‘I tied it under my seat.’

‘Where did you learn your knots?’

‘I was a star Girl Guide.’ She was, too, she thought, deciding maybe she needed to focus on anything but the way his hold had made her feel.

A star Girl Guide … She’d been a star at so many things—at anything, really, that would get her away from her parents’ overriding concern. Riding lessons, piano lessons, judo, elocution, Girl Guides, holiday camps … She’d been taken to each of them by a continuous stream of nannies. Nannies who were chosen because they spoke French, had famous relatives or in some other way could be boasted about by her parents …

‘The current girl’s a Churchill. She’s au-pairing for six months, and she knows all the right people …’

Yeah. Nannies, nannies and nannies. Knowing the right people or speaking five languages was never a sign of job permanence. Polly had mostly been glad to be delivered to piano or elocution or whatever. She’d done okay, too. She’d had to.

Her parents loved her, but oh, they loved to boast.

‘ER Physician, anaesthetist and Girl Guide to boot.’ Hugo sounded stunned. ‘I don’t suppose you brought a stretcher as well? Plus a qualification in mountain rescue.’

‘A full examination table, complete with lights, sinks, sterilisers? Plus rope ladders and mountain goats? Damn, I knew I’d forgotten something.’

He chuckled but she didn’t have time for further banter. She was swinging in a way that was making her a little dizzy. She had to catch the sapling.

Her feet were hitting the cliff. Ouch. Where was nice soft grass when you needed it?

Where was Hugo’s hold when she needed it?

He was busy. It made sense that he take over Horace’s care now, but …

She missed that hold.

‘It’s flowing well.’ There was no mistaking the satisfaction in Hugo’s voice and Polly, too, breathed again. If Horace’s heart hadn’t given way yet, there was every chance the fluids would make a difference.

In the truck, Hugo had the IV line set up and secure. He’d hung the saline bags from an umbrella he’d wedged behind the back seat. He’d injected morphine.

He’d like oxygen but Polly’s culling of his bag had excluded it. Fair enough, he thought. Oxygen or a defibrillator? With massive blood loss, the defibrillator was likely to be the most important, and the oxygen cylinder was dead weight.

Even so … How had she managed to get all this down here? What she’d achieved was amazing, and finding a vein in these circumstances was nothing short of miraculous.

She was his locum, temporary relief.

How would it be if there was a doctor like Polly working beside him in the Valley all year round?

Right. As if that was going to happen. His new locum was swinging on her seat, as if flying free, and he thought that was exactly what she was. Free.

Not trapped, like he was.

And suddenly he wasn’t thinking trapped in a truck down a cliff. He was thinking trapped in Wombat Valley, giving up his career, giving up … his life.

Once upon a time, if he’d met someone like Dr Polly Hargreaves he could have asked her out, had fun, tried friendship and maybe it could have led to …

No! It was no use even letting himself think down that road.

He was trapped in Wombat Valley. The skilful, intriguing Polly Hargreaves was rescuing him from one trap.

No one could rescue him from the bigger one.

Fifteen minutes later, help arrived. About time too, Polly thought. Mountains were for mountain goats. When the first yellow-jacketed figure appeared at the cliff top it was all she could do not to weep with relief.

She didn’t. She was a doctor and doctors didn’t weep.

Or not when yellow coats and big boots and serious equipment were on their way to save them.

‘We have company,’ she announced to Hugo, who couldn’t see the cliff top from where he was stuck.

‘More polka dots?’

She grinned and looked up at the man staring down at her. ‘Hi,’ she yelled. ‘Dr Denver wants to know what you’re wearing.’

The guy was on his stomach, looking down. ‘A business suit,’ he managed. ‘With matching tie. How’d you get down there?’

‘They fell,’ she said. ‘I came down all by myself. You wouldn’t, by any chance, have a cushion?’

He chuckled and then got serious. The situation was assessed with reassuring efficiency. There was more than one yellow jacket up there, it seemed, but only one was venturing near the edge.

‘We’ll get you up, miss,’ the guy called.

‘Stabilise the truck first.’

‘Will do.’

The Australian State Emergency Service was a truly awesome organisation, Polly decided. Manned mostly by volunteers, their skill set was amazing. The police sergeant had arrived, too, as well as two farmers with a tractor apiece. Someone had done some fast organising.

Two yellow-jacketed officers abseiled down, with much more efficiency and speed than Polly could have managed. They had the truck roped in minutes, anchoring it to the tractors above.

They disappeared again.

‘You think they’ve knocked off for a cuppa?’ Polly asked Hugo and he smiled, but absently. His smile was strained.

He had a kid, Polly thought. What was he about, putting himself in harm’s way?

Did his wife know where he was? If she did, she’d be having kittens.

Just lucky no one gave a toss about her.

Ooh, there was a bitter thought, and it wasn’t true. Her parents would be gutted. But then … If she died they could organise a truly grand funeral, she decided. If there was one thing her mother was good at, it was event management. There’d be a cathedral, massed choirs, requests to wear ‘Polly’s favourite colour’ which would be pink because her mother always told her pink was her favourite colour even though it wasn’t. And she’d arrange a release of white doves and pink and white balloons and the balloons would contain a packet of seeds—zinnias, she thought because ‘they’re Polly’s favourite flower’ and …

And there was the roar of tractors from above, the sound of sharp commands, and then a slow taking up of the slack of the attached ropes.

The truck moved, just a little—and settled again—and the man appeared over the edge and shouted, ‘You okay down there?’

‘Excellent,’ Hugo called, but Polly didn’t say anything at all.

‘Truck’s now secure,’ the guy called. ‘The paramedics want to know if Horace is okay to move. We can abseil down and bring Horace up on a cradle stretcher. How does that fit with you, Doc?’

‘Is it safe for you guys?’

‘Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs,’ the guy retorted. ‘But med report, Doc—the paramedics want to know.’

‘He’s safe to move as long as we can keep pressure off his chest,’ Hugo called. ‘I want a neck brace. There’s no sign of spinal injury but let’s not take any chances. Then Polly.’

‘Then you, Doc.’

‘Polly second,’ Hugo said in a voice that brooked no argument.

And, for once, Polly wasn’t arguing.

It must have been under the truck.

She’d been balancing in the harness, using her feet to stop herself from swinging.

The truck had done its jerk upward and she’d jerked backwards herself, maybe as an automatic reaction to tension. She’d pushed her feet hard against the cliff to steady herself.

The snake must have been caught under the truck in the initial fall. With the pressure off, it lurched forward to get away.

Polly’s foot landed right on its spine.

It landed one fierce bite to her ankle—and then slithered away down the cliff.

She didn’t move. She didn’t cry out.

Two guys in bright yellow overalls were abseiling down towards the driver’s side of the truck, holding an end of a cradle stretcher apiece. They looked competent, sure of themselves … fast?

Horace was still the priority. He was elderly, he’d suffered massive blood loss and he needed to be where he could be worked on if he went into cardiac arrest.

She was suffering a snake bite.

Tiger snake? She wasn’t sure. She’d only ever seen one in the zoo and she hadn’t looked all that closely then.

It had had stripes.

Tiger snakes were deadly.

But not immediately. Wombat Valley was a bush hospital and one thing bush hospitals were bound to have was antivenin, she told herself. She thought back to her training. No one ever died in screaming agony two minutes after they were bitten by a snake. They died hours later. If they didn’t get antivenin.

Therefore, she just needed to stay still and the nice guys in the yellow suits would come and get her and they’d all live happily ever after.

‘Polly?’ It was Hugo, his voice suddenly sharp.

‘I … what?’ She let go her toehold—she was only using one foot now—and her rope swung.

She felt … a bit sick.

That must be her imagination. She shouldn’t feel sick so fast.

‘Polly, what’s happening?’

The guys—no, on closer inspection, it was a guy and a woman—had reached Horace. Had Hugo fitted the neck brace to Horace, or had the abseilers? She hadn’t noticed. They were steadying the stretcher against the cliff, then sliding it into the cab of the truck, but leaving its weight to be taken by the anchor point on the road. In another world she’d be fascinated.

Things were a bit … fuzzy.

‘Polly?’

‘Mmm?’ She was having trouble getting her tongue to work. Her mouth felt thick and dry.

‘What the hell …? I can’t get out. Someone up there … priority’s changed. We need a harness on Dr Hargreaves—fast.’

Did he think she was going to faint? She thought about that and decided he might be right.

So do something.

She had a seat—sort of. She looped her arms around the side cords and linked her hands, then put her head down as far as she could.

She could use some glucose.

‘Get someone down here.’ It was a roar. ‘Fast. Move!’

‘I’m not going to faint,’ she managed but it sounded feeble, even to her.

‘Damn right, you’re not going to faint,’ Hugo snapped. ‘You faint and you’re out of my employ. Pull yourself together, Dr Hargreaves. Put that head further down, take deep breaths and count between breathing. You know what to do. Do it.’

‘I need … juice …’ she managed but her voice trailed off. This was ridiculous. She couldn’t …

She mustn’t.

Breathe, two, three. Out, two, three. Breathe …

‘Hold on, sweetheart—they’re coming.’

What had he called her? Sweetheart? No one called Polly Hargreaves sweetheart unless they wanted her to do something. Or not do something. Not to cut her hair. Not to do medicine. To play socialite daughter for their friends.

To come home for Christmas …

She wasn’t going home for Christmas. She was staying in Wombat Valley. The thought was enough to steady her.

If she fainted then she’d fall and they’d send her back to Sydney in a body bag and her mother would have her fabulous funeral …

Not. Not, not, not.

‘I’ve been bitten by a snake,’ she muttered, with as much strength and dignity as she could muster. Which wasn’t actually very much at all. She still had her head between her knees and she daren’t move. ‘It was brown with stripes and it bit my ankle. And I know it’s a hell of a time to tell you, but I need to say … I’m also a Type One diabetic. So I’m not sure whether this is a hypo or snake bite but, if I fall, don’t let my mother bury me in pink. Promise.’

‘I promise,’ Hugo said and then a yellow-suited figure was beside her, and her only objection was that he was blocking her view of Hugo.

It sort of seemed important that she see Hugo.

‘She has a snake bite on her ankle,’ Hugo was saying urgently. ‘And she needs glucose. Probable hypo. Get the cradle back down here as fast as you can, and bring glucagon. While we wait, I have a pressure bandage here in the cabin. If you can swing her closer we’ll get her leg immobilised.’

‘You’re supposed to be on holiday,’ Polly managed while Yellow Suit figured out how to manoeuvre her closer to Hugo.

‘Like that’s going to happen now,’ Hugo said grimly. ‘Let’s get the hired help safe and worry about holidays later.’