Doctors in Flight Read online

  A man his age, which must be thirty-plus, who blushes?

  He finishes the last mouthful of food on his plate, then looks around as if seeking a diversion that will provide a satisfactory switch in the conversation. No little green men appear, no carpet snake winds down from the ceiling, there’s no explosion over at the hospital, so he’s forced to either be rude and ignore her, or to answer.

  ‘It just hasn’t happened, that’s all,’ he says, voice gruff, probably with anger at being forced into this situation. Then he smiles at Gran and relaxes back into his chair. ‘I suppose the right woman hasn’t come along.’

  ‘And do you have an image of this “right” woman?’ Gran asks, and I’m pretty sure she’s not being facetious.

  I would have been if it had been me asking the question.

  GR hesitates then seems to realise that hesitation won’t wash with Gran. Neither will changing the subject. She’ll allow you a little respite, then home right back onto the subject like a heat-seeking missile.

  ‘I guess everyone has a hazy image of their perfect match. Shared interests, much the same physical characteristics as yourself so physically you’re well matched that way. Similar emotional balance.’

  So he wants a tall, quiet, unemotional brunette whose eyes don’t leak.

  ‘I’ve never said that to anyone before,’ he adds, as if the answer was a revelation to himself as well, and now he’s said it the conversation is finished.

  He doesn’t know Gran!

  ‘Earlier you said it just hadn’t happened. What’s never happened?’

  Talk about pinning a man to a spot. If it wasn’t for the zapping I’d have felt sorry for him.

  GR shrugs, inevitably drawing my attention to his well-constructed shoulders. The man might be lean, but there’s strength in that leanness, and hard, flat planes of muscle that stretch his shirt whenever he moves.

  ‘Meeting someone like that and—well, falling in love, I guess,’ he’s saying to Gran when I’ve reminded myself his muscles are none of my business and tune in again to the conversation. ‘I don’t mean physical attraction—that rash madness that makes grown men act like fools—but the deep abiding love that grows and strengthens as two people share their lives. I know love’s a subject most men avoid like the plague, and I’ll admit, when I was young, I was fairly cynical about the existence of an emotion that couldn’t be proven or quantified in any way. But I’ve seen enough happy relationships to accept that something exists to make them work as well as they do. My parents are a prime example. They’re not what you’d call romantic, yet being together has worked for them for forty years.’

  Gran beams at him as if having happily married parents is his doing, while I just stare at him in disbelief.

  He’s got to be making this up. GR Prentice, the man who doesn’t approve of women O and G specialists, who hates having the hassle of woman registrars working for him, is a closet romantic? I’ve only known the man a couple of days, but my mind’s definitely boggling.

  ‘That proves it must be love you’re waiting for,’ Gran tells him, throwing me a don’t-you-dare look as if she knows I’d like to make a vomit sound. ‘Having grown up with a wonderful example of a happy marriage in action, you’re not willing to settle for anything less.’

  GR smiles, as if agreeing with her, then says, ‘It’s been quite a wait.’

  The words, quietly spoken, carry a trace of regret and I forget my cynicism for long enough to wonder if he’s telling the truth. If he really is a man who’s looking for love!

  Gran nods understandingly.

  ‘But you’ll find it’s worth it in the end. I waited until the real thing came along, and you know where I found it?’ She’s beaming at him as if he’s about to win a million dollars if he guesses right, then doesn’t give him a chance to answer. ‘Right here in Bilbarra,’ she announces, nodding to confirm the words. ‘Literally right here.’

  She waves her arms around then turns towards the windows above the sink and smiles nostalgically.

  ‘I came out here for my first job as a fully fledged nursing sister, and Hillary’s grandfather was managing a property not far out of town. In those days these quarters were connected up to the hospital, and if you came back after midnight—that’s when our leave passes finished—the outside door was locked, and you had to walk in through the hospital. Of course, someone always reported you to Matron.’

  She smiles again and nods towards the windows.

  ‘Many’s the night Jock boosted me up through those windows.’

  ‘You climbed through the windows? Grandad boosted you up? What were you doing, running around Bilbarra until after midnight anyway?’

  As soon as that last bit came out I realised what she’d probably been doing, and knew the colour in my cheeks was more a deep scarlet than a delicate pink. But, honestly, if there’s one thing a woman doesn’t need to know about, it’s her grandparents’ sex lives.

  Fortunately GR is talking, asking Gran about the property Grandad managed, and, of course, as the fates are currently joined in a conspiracy against me, it’s the place he now owns, and he’s inviting Gran to visit this weekend.

  That’s enough to shock my mind away from the previous conversation.

  ‘Come out and stay,’ he adds expansively. ‘Hillary’s on call but it’s only fifteen minutes from town and it takes longer than that to get the aircraft ready for take-off.’

  ‘Gran can go,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got things to do this weekend. If every day’s as long as today, I won’t have time during the week to shop or sort things out here.’

  ‘I can do that for you.’ Ever-helpful Gran. I want to ask how long she’s staying—I can probably keep from strangling her for three weeks, but after that, if she keeps up this matchmaking business, because I know full well that’s what it is, I won’t be responsible for my actions. But asking her point blank would probably sound rude to GR so I restrain myself.

  ‘Good, I’ll tell Elizabeth, my manager’s wife, to expect all three of us,’ GR says, then he pushes back his chair, reaches out for my plate and Gran’s, stacks all three then carries them across to the sink.

  ‘I’ll wash those later,’ Gran tells him, bustling after him. ‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’

  GR shakes his head.

  ‘No, thank you. The meal was wonderful, but I’ve got to go. I’ve a patient to see at the hospital, and another early morning tomorrow.’

  His eyes meet mine across the top of Gran’s head.

  ‘You’ve got the schedule? You know tomorrow’s three towns—Gilgudgel, where we should be able to check on yesterday’s new arrival, then Edenvale, then Amberton.’

  He smiles down at Gran who’s been given more smiles in a couple of hours than I’ve seen him use in two days. He’ll wear his lips out at this rate!

  ‘We get home at about the same time, but I won’t stay on for a meal. It would be too easy to get into the habit of being fed, then, when you leave, I’d have to rely on Hillary.’

  Gran rolls her eyes.

  ‘From the amount of chocolate I unpacked out of her boxes, I’d say you’re more likely to get half a bar of special dark than a decent meal.’

  ‘Chocoholic?’ He swivels towards me and the eyebrow rises.

  ‘Chocolate has been proven to have a number of calmative properties,’ I tell him snootily.

  It’s also good for despair, depression, worry, panic and when you don’t have a date on a Saturday night. Of course, not having a date on a Saturday night requires heavy-duty chocolate consumption. Try blending chocolate milk, chocolate ice cream, chocolate sauce and your favourite chocolate bar with a dash of chocolate liqueur and sip while eating double chocolate fudge ice cream straight from the container.

  ‘It’s no good, she’s gone again,’ Gran says as she walks GR along the veranda to the front door.

  He turns, and this time he smiles at me. Me, not Gran. I’m not hyperventilating, though I’m close. Panic choc
olate is something small enough to eat in handfuls. Little chocolate beans or buds you can toss right down. Broken bits off bars are too chunky and could cause choking during panic times. Doctors know these things!

  I wonder where Gran put the packets when she unpacked.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  KNOWING Gran’s visit was prompted by an urge to revisit her happy memories of the past doesn’t make accepting her presence any easier. It’s a long time since we’ve lived together, but not long enough for her to have got out of the habit of being the carer, me the caree. Which, in Gran’s mind, means I still have to be told what to do.

  Like washing my hands before a meal and eating a proper breakfast. Believe me, I do both those things on a regular basis, but Gran feels duty-bound to remind me.

  The argument is over breakfast.

  ‘Michael and…’ I stall, not wanting to call him GR to Gran and unable to say Gregor out loud ‘…the boss stop for breakfast at the roadhouse on the way to the airport so, whichever of them comes to give me a lift, I’ll have a chance to get something there.’

  ‘I stopped there for fuel on the way into town,’ Gran informs me. ‘The facilities weren’t the cleanest. You tell those two from me that while I’m here I’ll cook their breakfasts.’

  ‘No, Gran. No way. I work with these guys but I don’t need them in my life twenty-four seven.’

  ‘Twenty-four seven? What on earth are you talking about?’

  I have to smile.

  ‘Not up with things, Gran?’ I tease, because she prides herself in keeping up to date with what’s going on in the world. ‘It’s part of the new conversational shorthand people use these days. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. When it’s written there’s a slash between the two numbers.’

  And having successfully diverted her from the subject of breakfast, I push a few necessities into the pockets of my cargo pants—which Gran found among the debris of clothes on the veranda and left, folded neatly, in a drawer in my room—and go out to meet GR who’s just pulling up outside.

  ‘Don’t you dare come out and offer him breakfast,’ I warn Gran, who looks offended then goes to the louvres to wave to him. Maybe it’s because she taught me at home herself—Rosebud was a hundred kilometres from the nearest town—and never had the opportunity to wave me off to school, but she stands there and waves as we leave.

  ‘Is she staying long, your grandmother?’ GR asks, and I realise this is probably the first personal conversation we’ve had—apart from when he’s commented on my clothing.

  ‘Who knows?’ I reply, then vent a little spleen. ‘That’s the problem with unexpected visitors. It’s always nice to see people you like, but eventually you want to get your life back. But if you ask them how long they’re staying it sounds rude.’

  GR glances my way then turns his attention back to the road. I can’t see the eyebrow but I’m pretty sure it’s risen.

  ‘You’re unable to lead a normal life with your grandmother around? Does she cramp your style? Stop you throwing wild parties? Prevent you having men in your room night after night?’

  ‘I’ve never found sarcasm either clever or amusing,’ I tell him, and fortunately we’re now at the roadhouse so conversation can cease. Considering Michael’s dicky stomach, I don’t really want to travel with him, and buying myself a car in order not to travel with GR seems like a bit of overkill.

  Maybe a push-bike. I’d be getting exercise, which would be a double benefit, given the chocolate I’ll undoubtedly need to keep me sane.

  ‘Aren’t you coming in?’

  He’s holding the door open, that familiar look of pained patience on his face.

  I slide out—these big four-wheel-drives are too high off the ground to make getting in and out easy for short people and, with him holding the door, I land within the ambit of the voltage. I’m trying for a kind of casual elegance to combat this, but my left foot lands on a rock and I stumble, only slightly.

  I can feel GR’s impatience with my footwear vibrating in the air between us.

  ‘Before you decided to whisk us off to your property for the weekend, I’d intended spending Saturday morning checking out the local shoe stores for a decent pair of boots,’ I tell him haughtily. ‘I’m not totally stupid.’

  ‘Store,’ he says, and I must look bewildered, for he adds helpfully, ‘There’s only one, and we don’t have to leave early, so you can shop before we go. In fact, if you like, I’ll collect you at nine and take you to it.’

  A rather hazy memory of cool hands on my feet makes me shiver with apprehension.

  ‘No—thanks but, no, it’s OK. Gran has a car. I’ll drive myself.’

  Inside, Michael’s sipping at a cup of weak tea.

  ‘I’ve ordered your breakfast,’ he says to GR, ‘but didn’t know what Hillary ate.’

  ‘Hardly anything, apart from chocolate, according to her grandmother,’ GR replies, and Michael looks startled, but he’s obviously doing some kind of mental preparation for the flight—a mantra of I won’t be sick, I won’t be sick—and doesn’t pursue the statement. I order my own toast and coffee, and join the discussion on the day’s patients.

  Today’s first patient is a woman in her early forties with ovarian cysts. A laparoscopy on a previous visit included a biopsy and the cysts are not cancerous, but the ovaries are sufficiently affected for the woman to need both removed.

  ‘How is she handling the idea?’ I ask, knowing that, in losing both her ovaries, the woman will also lose her oestrogen production.

  GR sighs.

  ‘That’s one of the few problems associated with the service,’ he says, taking off his glasses and rubbing a hand across his face in a gesture that’s becoming familiar. ‘If she lived here in town, there could easily be a four-week delay between when I suggest surgery and when she’s actually booked to have it, but during that time, if she was worried or anxious about anything, she’d know she could make an appointment to see me.’

  He slips his glasses back into place, pushes them up with his forefinger, sits back for the waitress to set down his food, then continues.

  ‘You know I consult here in town on Fridays—actually, I consult one week and operate the next. But I’m here, so patients in town know they can contact me relatively easily at least once a week. And although I tell the country patients to phone me if they’re worried, or want to discuss something, they’re a breed of people who “don’t like to make a fuss”, so, of course, they don’t.’

  He sounds sufficiently perturbed about this for me to feel a twinge of sympathy. Dangerous in the circumstances.

  I think about the woman—the comfort being that these days there are any number of hormone replacement therapies she can try.

  ‘You’ll put her on HRT?’

  ‘I’ll definitely suggest it,’ he says, but he’s frowning as he says it and I can guess what’s bothering him.

  ‘I know the US study suggested it increased the chance of breast cancer, but I read a lot about that study and couldn’t see anything in where they looked at other predisposing issues in the women who were taking it.’

  He’s tackling his gargantuan breakfast—cholesterol-laden bacon, eggs, sausages, and he has a go at me about chocolate!—while I’m talking, and kind of nods as if willing to hear what else I have to say.

  ‘My GP back in Brisbane is a woman in her fifties who’s been on it for years. I asked her what she thought and she said she was continuing to take it herself and when or if she got breast cancer, what would she blame—the fact her mother had it, or that she has two glasses of wine every night, or HRT, because all are predisposing factors? She said she couldn’t do anything about the heredity and didn’t intend doing anything about her alcohol consumption, and as she wasn’t yet ready to give up a very enjoyable sex life, why stop taking HRT?’

  At this stage Michael chokes on his tea—there must be bones in it—while GR glances around the room, no doubt to see if anyone has fallen off their chair because
, once again, excitement has caused my voice to rise—just a little.

  My toast arrives and I plough into it, then Michael, who’s been looking puzzled since the choking exercise, asks, ‘What’s HRT got to do with a woman’s sex life? Do women lose their libido after menopause?’

  I give him a scathing look.

  ‘No doubt, like most male students, you went to the pub when women’s health lectures were on. A regular supply of oestrogen does improve a woman’s libido but, more importantly for most women, oestrogen keeps the tissues in the vagina soft and well lubricated. This is essential if older women are to continue to enjoy sex.’

  ‘So it’s a far bigger issue than the uncomfortable side-effects of menopause like hot flushes and mood swings,’ GR says, and I’m not sure if he’s agreeing with me or asking a question. A puzzle which is solved when he adds, ‘I might have to rethink my stand on women O and G specialists. You’re quite right—a woman like your grandmother, for instance, would be far more likely to speak to another woman about that side of HRT benefit than she would to a man.’

  My grandmother? Taking HRT to stay moist? The climbing-through-the-window conversation last night offered too much information—now this?

  I look suspiciously at GR, sure there’s a hidden quirk hovering around his lips. He’s winding me up—he has to be—though now I remember thinking how attractive Gran looked last night, and realise there’s no reason why she shouldn’t have an active sex life.

  Which is more than I’m enjoying…

  A different nurse meets us at Gilgudgel, but I guess that’s always going to be the way. Whoever is on duty, but least busy, is probably sent.

  Michael heads straight for the theatre. GR tells me he’s going to check on Wendy, and as he doesn’t tell me I can’t tag along, I go with him. She’s feeding the baby as we knock and enter her room.

  ‘Dr Prentice. Sister told me you’d be here today. My scar’s healing beautifully, so is it OK if I leave hospital?’