Doctors in Flight Read online

  We strip off our theater garb, hurling the soiled clothes into the bin

  You get used to shared changing rooms early in your training, so we’re as unself-conscious about being in the same room in our underwear as kids in kindergarten would be.

  Until our arms collide midthrow—and we both stop. I stop because the unexpected physical contact affects me in the way this man’s been affecting me since the first handshake.

  I don’t know why he stops until he turns, grips my shoulders, tugs me close and kisses me.

  Hard, hot, angry, almost, but oh, if his hands have zapping power, it’s nothing to what his lips can do….

  Dear Reader,

  I didn’t feel it would be right to round off DOCTORS IN THE OUTBACK, this series of four books set in the Australian Outback, without including one of the unique services operating in Queensland. Although Bilbarra doesn’t exist, and the Flying O and G service depicted in this book is purely fictional, there is such a service operating in Queensland. It is based in Roma, where the Flying Surgeon is also based, and is funded by the Queensland Department of Health. The FOG—or Flying Gynae, as he is known—conducts regular clinics in rural and remote towns as well as being on call for obstetric or gynaecological emergencies. Through this service, women of the Outback are able to access services that were once only available to their city cousins.

  I am really enjoying my new life in the Outback, and I hope these books will bring you a taste of it—a taste of the variety of life in the bush, the highs and lows, the tears and laughter and, of course, the love those that live out here seek and find.

  With best wishes,

  Meredith Webber

  Doctors in Flight

  Meredith Webber

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  THEY can deny it all they like—sexism in the medical profession—but honestly, when you’re one of four O and G registrars in a major hospital, three of whom have a Y chromosome, you know darned well why the one with two Xs ends up in Woop Woop.

  ‘Send the woman,’ someone says, and the—mostly male—powers that be all nod, delighted by the ease of the decision.

  So though I’m not in any way a rampant feminist, I’m still seething about this ‘arbitrary’ selection when I arrive in Bilbarra. I don’t think Woop Woop actually exists. It’s just a name most people use when talking about the underpopulated regions of Australia—known colloquially as ‘the outback’ or, more simply ‘the bush’. The fact that, umpteen years ago, I shot off to university to escape the bush and now here I am, boomeranged back to it, hasn’t helped my mood any either.

  Stepping off the plane onto tarmac hot enough to fry eggs, I’m hit by heavy, eucalypt-scented air, so dry I can feel my hair frizzing against my scalp. Actually, it smells good—the air, not my frizzing hair—but I’m not going to be seduced by the smell of an unpolluted atmosphere. I’m not that easy!

  ‘Dr Green. Will Dr Green please report to the check-in desk.’

  The message assaults my ears as soon as I scuttle thankfully into the air-conditioning in the small airport building.

  The check-in desk?

  Hallelujah, maybe someone’s realised I’m all wrong for this job. I’m being sent back to the city!

  I sashay across to the white counter on the right, pushing past a rather portly young man who’s lurking beside it.

  ‘I’m Dr Green.’

  The official behind the desk looks startled—perhaps I sounded too enthusiastic about being me—and nods towards the portly gent, who’s doing a stunned mullet imitation beside me.

  ‘You’re Dr Green?’

  An alien would have been greeted with less disbelief.

  ‘You have a problem with that?’ I snap the words at him, the brief spurt of happiness replaced by ire now I realise I’ve been summoned to the check-in desk not to collect a ticket back to the city but so this guy can identify me.

  ‘No, not me! Certainly not.’ He holds up his hands as if to ward me off. Perhaps I sounded just a smidgen too aggressive. ‘I’m Michael Reynolds, Dr Prentice’s anaesthetist. He asked me to meet you—couldn’t make it himself.’

  He offers his right hand tentatively—no doubt wondering if I’ll bite it or shake it—all the while staring at me so I begin to wonder if my hair did frizz right off my head when I hit the heat outside.

  I shake his hand, which is soft and a bit clammy, but resist the urge to wipe my palm on my skirt when I’m done.

  ‘Hillary Green,’ I say. Even in the bush we’re taught good manners. ‘I’m looking forward to working with you and Dr Prentice.’

  He gives me another disbelieving look, but he’s obviously been brought up with manners, too, and as he ushers me towards the door, where a small tractor has pulled a trailer-load of luggage from the plane, he says politely, ‘Hillary. That’s an unusual name. Are you called Hilly?’

  ‘Only by people brave enough to risk disembowelment or castration.’

  OK, I come on a little strong at times, but a lifetime of being Silly Hilly or Hilly Dilly is enough to try a saint’s patience.

  ‘Yes, I see,’ Michael mutters, taking the suitcase I’ve lifted off the trailer and heading towards the exit. ‘The car’s out this way.’

  ‘Hey, that’s not all,’ I yell after him, but he’s already gone. Muttering now myself, I lift off the other three cases and the box of books and another box with some kitchen things in it—try finding cardamom pods or Godiva chocolate, eaten only during those very special emergencies, in a country supermarket. I stand beside the pile until Michael returns.

  ‘Good grief!’ He’s still muttering and throwing me strange looks, but he grabs the box of books and heads back out again. I follow, wheeling the two big cases, and we repeat the trek to collect the last one and the kitchen stuff.

  ‘I should have brought a removal van,’ he says when it’s finally packed into the back of his roomy four-wheel-drive. Though he’s carrying on about the luggage, I can’t help feeling there’s something else behind the looks and muttering.

  A foreboding that has nothing to do with being back in the bush shivers along my nerves.

  Michael does the tourist guide thing on the drive to town, pointing out the shooting club—like I’ll be spending spare time there!—and the sewage farm—ditto—and finally the sale yards.

  ‘It’s sale day,’ he adds unnecessarily as the aroma of the secretions of milling, agitated cattle seeps through the air-conditioning ducts and confirms, hey, I’m back in the bush.

  ‘The boss’s at the sales.’

  ‘Cattle sales on a Sunday?’

  ‘It’s something special,’ Michael says, as if the selling of cattle is a subject way beyond his comprehension. ‘To do with bulls, I think. All I know is the boss had to go.’

  He says this as if it’s a good thing, and I’m about to ask why when he pulls up outside the hospital.

  ‘Wow!’

  Michael smiles properly for the first time since we met.

  ‘Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it? The patient wings are all new but they married in bits of the old hospital as well. It takes a while to find your way around, but the place really works.’

  He sounds so genuinely enthusiastic I forgive his earlier lapses.

  ‘They’re putting you up in the old nurses’ quarters around the back, though once you have a look around the town you might decide to rent a place. That’s if you can find one.�
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  We drive around the side of the modern, teal and gold and dull blue painted building and he stops again outside a tired wooden structure with glass louvres all down one side. None of the bright new paint was wasted out here.

  ‘It’s not much but no one else uses it so you’ll have plenty of space to spread out.’

  He’s sounding so apologetic I start to worry again. With good reason, as it turns out. ‘Not much’ has to be the understatement of the year. The building consists of ten small single rooms—small? I kid you not! Nuns’ cells would be bigger—opening off a long louvred veranda. A similarly louvred veranda runs along the back of the rooms. At the far end of the front veranda is an open space with a small rickety table, four ancient chairs, two lounge chairs and a television on a stand. Around the corner is a counter with a kitchen sink, and opposite it a stove that might have been new when the war ended—the First World War, that is.

  Real windows replace the louvres at this end, and although at one time they had obviously had attractive coloured and patterned glass in them, some of the panes must have been broken over time and been replaced with clear glass, so the impression is of something patched together for expediency rather than looks.

  Beyond this dreary living-kitchen area are two small rooms, which I assume contain essential plumbing fixtures.

  ‘This is it?’ I ask Michael, sure he must be joking.

  ‘It’s the only temporary accommodation the hospital has,’ he says, then foolishly adds, ‘Right now.’

  I let it pass, though I know the FOG’s anaesthetic registrars, like his O and G registrars, are sent up on a six-month rotation, and I guess he’s in far superior temporary accommodation somewhere in the area. Did I tell you about the FOG? That’s why I’m here, and while Michael’s carting in the luggage—I told you I wasn’t a rampant feminist—I’ll fill you in.

  The FOG is the Flying Obstetrician and Gynaecologist. The first service of this kind was started in Roma in southwest Queensland, and now there’s also one here in Bilbarra, which is a large country town in Central Queensland. But ‘based’ means just that. The FOG holds regular consultancy sessions and operates in hospitals all over the place. The state government funds the O and G specialist, a plane, two pilots, an anaesthetist and an O and G registrar—who, for the moment for the Bilbarra service, is me.

  Michael struggles along the veranda with the book box and one of the suitcases, while behind him a woman in dark blue calf-length trousers and a blue and white checked shirt tows a couple more suitcases.

  ‘I can’t believe they’ve sent a woman,’ she says, abandoning the suitcases by the door of one of the cells and giving me a look that adds, And one who can’t cart her own luggage at that!

  I ignore the unspoken criticism, but am moved to protest about the disbelief statement. First acquaintance with my temporary abode hasn’t improved my temper any.

  ‘What is it with you people? You can’t be antediluvian enough to think women should be kept barefoot and pregnant and living on the outskirts of town.’

  ‘It’s not us you have to worry about, sweetie,’ the woman snaps. ‘It’s the boss. And though not exactly antediluvian, he sure hates working with female registrars.’

  I am about to launch into my tirade about sexism in the medical profession when I realise it will be wasted on this audience. I’ll keep it for ‘the boss’ himself and, boy, will I enjoy letting loose on him!

  ‘Well, tough buns,’ I tell the newcomer, then, remembering my manners for the second time since my arrival, shove out my hand.

  ‘I’m Hillary Green.’

  ‘And don’t call her Hilly,’ Michael adds, then beats a strategic retreat, no doubt preferring lugging luggage to being in the firing line should war break out between us.

  The woman steps forward.

  ‘Maureen Sharp. I’m acting Director Of Nursing. Also Theatre sister when the boss operates in Bilbarra. I suppose you know he has a small private practice here as well as his other work.’

  I shake her hand, but my brain’s working overtime.

  Does Dr Prentice not have a first name? I know he has initials—G.R.—they’re on the letter I received telling me to report to him.

  Or does he not allow underlings to use his first name, hence this almost reverent use of ‘the boss’?

  Not that his name’s the issue here—

  ‘Why doesn’t he like working with female registrars?’

  Maureen shrugs her ample shoulders.

  ‘Who knows? I haven’t been here long myself but it seems to be general knowledge. Perhaps he had a bad experience some time? He’s not exactly chatty, the boss, or forthcoming about his thoughts and feelings. Damn good doctor, though. And caring in an odd, detached kind of way.’

  Maureen stops, as if afraid she’d said too much, and looks around.

  ‘This place is a dump but there’s not much else available at the moment. There’s a new mine being opened in the area and all available accommodation’s been snapped up by the mining company. Even then, there’s not enough to house the influx and the caravan park’s full as well.’

  She turns to watch Michael approach with yet more luggage, and smiles one of those infuriatingly smug, poor-silly-you smiles.

  ‘Think you’ll get to wear all that gear while you’re here?’

  I don’t deign to explain that, owing to an inbred miserliness, I’ve given up my flat and, as you might guess, I refuse to spend money on storage for my possessions. Everything I own is packed into those cases and boxes.

  ‘Come across to the hospital when you’re settled in. I’ll introduce you to Georgia, the boss’s secretary. She’s come in today to catch up on some paperwork because she’s going on leave from tomorrow. She’s offered to take you over the hospital, show you the dining room where you can get your meals if you want hospital food, fix you up with a cell phone and pager and your duty roster. You did bring an alarm clock?’

  She glances towards the stack of luggage, and though I’ve never owned an alarm clock in my life I lie and say of course I have.

  I know what you’re thinking, but it isn’t because of my Scrooge streak that I don’t own an alarm clock. I happen to be blessed with a very reliable internal alarm. I tell it what time I need to wake up, and it works every time.

  Maureen has departed by now. Michael has delivered all the luggage and is hovering, as if uncertain what he should do next.

  ‘The boss said he’d be back by two and he’ll see you then.’

  Said boss’s sidekick looks so uncomfortable I feel sorry for him.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say. ‘So, I’m a woman. What’s the worst this ogre can do? Perform a sex-change op? A bit drastic, surely. Send me back? Hell, I wouldn’t fight him on that score. Do you think I wanted to come out and languish in this backwater for six months, dropping out of the sky to deliver a baby like some new-age stork?’

  ‘Actually, you’ll spend more time operating on gynaecological problems,’ a deep voice says. ‘We do very few regular deliveries.’

  I spin around to see a tall, dark-haired, strong-featured man with glasses striding down the veranda.

  Soundlessly?

  I look down at his feet and see the socks, recognising immediately the country habit of kicking off outside shoes at the front door.

  He must have seen my eyes drop for he adds, ‘I’ve been at the sale yards and, though this place is no Hilton, there’s no point in making it worse by tramping manure through it.’

  He stops about a metre in front of me.

  ‘Dr H Green, I presume?’

  ‘Dr GR Prentice?’ I counter, looking challengingly up at him, seeing the glint of grey eyes behind the lenses of his glasses—grey eyes that are disconcertingly soft.

  ‘G—Richard,’ he says, so quietly I miss the first bit.

  He shoots out his hand and it would be churlish not to shake it, but within seconds of my skin meeting his I realise churlish would have been better.


  Much better!

  The man must have had some kind of static electricity overload because even that casual touch sends a buzzing sensation along my nerves. And by the time I’ve conquered that sensation, it’s too late to ask him to repeat his first name.

  ‘Hillary!’ I manage to blurt out, removing my hand from the danger zone and checking to see how badly scorched the skin is.

  Not a sign of redness, but I’m still tingly enough to know I didn’t imagine the voltage passing through me.

  ‘Did you do that?’ he asks, peering down at me through the glasses.

  ‘Do what?’ I ask, certain my body hasn’t been guilty of any socially unacceptable act in the couple of seconds he’s been near me.

  He ignores me answering his question with a question and turns his attention to the pile of luggage.

  ‘You know you’re only temporary?’

  Very temporary, I think, remembering what I was saying as he crept up behind us, but I’m not going to bite.

  ‘Yes.’

  He turns back to study me, as if surprised I’m not offering more, but my mouth has got me into trouble often enough for me to learn when to keep it closed.

  Most of the time…

  Michael has moved away and is opening louvres along the veranda. A slight breeze drifts in, carrying a waft of cattle-yard scent from the new arrival to me. Redolent of all I fled when I headed for the city, I should be repulsed but, damn it all, I feel tears smarting in my eyes as it washes across me, and for an instant I want to be a child again, casting myself into my grandfather’s arms when he comes in from a day’s work.

  However, given both the buzzing and this man’s apparent aversion to women, casting myself into his arms isn’t an option. Casting myself into any man’s arms isn’t an option! I’m a woman with her hormones under control. That buzzing thing is nothing more than a temporary glitch.

  He’s moved on anyway, rounding the corner to talk to Michael.

  ‘Gilgudgel has a young woman, protracted labour and the descent’s stopped. It’s a good opportunity to show Dr Green how we work so we’ll all go. Dave’s fuelling the plane now.’