The Spice of Life

She rolled her eyes and wondered how to tackle it. Young doctors were usually only too willing to take advice, but every now and again you got one like this lad, who clearly was all at sea and didn’t know how to light the flares!

‘Not a bad idea,’ she said, ‘considering he’s probably banged his head when he passed out. Diabetics often damage themselves, don’t they?’

He looked faintly startled. ‘Diabetics? Does he have a Medic Alert bracelet?’

‘I have no idea, but he——’

‘Well, then, I think it would be safer to assume a neurological cause such as CVA, don’t you, Sister?’ he said loftily.

‘Certainly, Doctor, if you say so,’ she replied sweetly, containing the urge to crown him for his patronising ignorance. After all, how long would it take to do a blood test with a Haemastix strip? Thirty seconds? What he was planning would tie half the hospital up for the entire morning!

Jack was busy, dealing with a nasty fracture, so she went to the nursing station and picked up the phone. Tage Dr Marumba for me, could you?’ she asked the switchboard. Seconds later she was connected to the consultant physician.

‘Are you busy, Jesus? I wonder if I could offer you a cup of coffee in my department within the next couple of minutes?’

There was a deep chuckle from the other end. ‘My pleasure, Kathleen. Problems?’

‘You might say that.’

‘Be right down.’

‘Bless you.’

She put the receiver down and went back into the cubicle. ‘Should we take some bloods for chemistry, Dr Reynolds?’ she asked mildly.

‘Ah—good idea, Sister. Perhaps you’d like to do the honours?’

‘Certainly.’ She withdrew fifty millilitres of completely unnecessary blood from the patient’s arm, filled up the appropriate bottles and then put a blob on the treated strip and glanced at her watch.

As she finished she heard Dr Marumba’s deep, cultured rumble in the corridor.

She stuck her head round the curtain and winked. ‘Nearly done here, Dr Marumba. Could you give me a minute?’

‘Sure.’ The tall man elbowed his way past the curtain and peered at the patient. ‘Interesting—looks like hypoglycaemia, doesn’t it, Dr Reynolds?’

The SHO’s jaw dropped. ‘Ah—um—well, it’s certainly a possibility, sir.’

Jesus nodded. ‘Oh, yes, see the strip—blood sugar way down. Well spotted. I see Sister Hennessy’s done all the necessary tests for you. Well done. Glucagon?’

‘Ah—well, yes, I—’

‘Good, good. Well, I mustn’t hold you up. Perhaps I’ll come by for coffee another time, Sister. I can see you’re busy here with Dr Reynolds.’ He brushed past Kathleen, and the orthodontic miracle of his smile flashed against the rich ebony of his skin. His wink was wickedly conspiratorial.

‘I’m sorry about the coffee,’ she apologised, working hard on her straight face.

‘Forget it—it’s better upstairs, anyway.’

‘Not you, too!’ She turned back to Joe Reynolds and smiled innocently.

He returned the smile warily. ‘I guess I owe you an apology, Sister.’

She let her smile mellow. Poor boy, he had no idea his downfall had been engineered. ‘Think nothing of it,’ she told him. ‘I’ve been doing the job for years, don’t forget. Experience counts for a lot, Joe. OK, what next?’

He opened his mouth, shut it again and grinned sheepishly.

‘Glucagon?’

She waited.

‘Um …’

‘We’ll go through it together, shall we? Then he can go and rest in the day ward for a while.’

The relief on Joe’s face would have been comic if it hadn’t been so worrying. Yet another one she was going to have to watch like a hawk, she thought wearily. Between him and Amy Winship, they were well staffed with idiots at the moment.

Oh, well, it would give her two bodyguards if she didn’t ever let them out of her sight. That way she might have some protection against Jack Lawrence and his hyperactive lips!

It worked till Thursday, but then Amy was on days off and Joe had a cold. Inevitably it meant that she and Jack were in closer proximity, and it threatened to push her sanity over the brink.

Though why it should, lord only knows, she thought. What is it the man has that’s so darned appealing?

Charm, her alter ego told her. Lazy, sexy, masculine charm—bucketfuls of it, coupled with a certain vulnerability that showed every now and then. Unfortunately it was a potent combination, and there was no known cure.

By about two-thirty she had run out of ways of dodging him. They had a patient with multiple lacerations of the face and neck following a fall through a window, and he needed extensive suturing. Never having seen Jack suture, she wondered if she ought to call the fascio-maxillary surgeon over from the Norfolk and Norwich, or if she could, indeed, trust Jack to do a decent job. Their own fascio-max man was on holiday that week or the problem wouldn’t have arisen.

She decided there was only one way to deal with it, and that was directly.

She found him in his office.

‘How’s your suturing?’ she asked without preamble.

‘My suturing? Pretty good—why?’

‘We have a patient with multiple lacerations of the face and neck and our fascio-max is away—I was just wondering if you were good enough,’ she replied bluntly.

He smiled—which was just as well. He could have flipped, having his professional competence challenged like that.

‘I think she’ll be safe with me,’ he said mildly.

‘He.’

‘Even better. I’ll practise on the jaw-line—then if it isn’t good enough, he can always grow a beard to hide it.’

His voice was so bland she really wasn’t sure if he was joking, but having asked and received an apparently satisfactory reply, she decided she had no choice but to go with him.

‘He’s in Cubicle Four.’

Jack nodded. ‘I’ll have a look, but then I think we’ll move him into Ops if I think it’s justified. I’ll need a good work light.’

He went in to the patient, a man in his thirties, and smiled a hello.

‘I was enjoying that cup of tea,’ he said mournfully.

The man attempted a smile. ‘Sorry, Guv. Made a bit of a mess, haven’t I?’

‘Just a shade. Still, soon have you sorted out. I think we’ll move you into a little theatre we have down here for just this sort of thing, OK? I’ll get the nurses to move you and get you comfy, and I’ll have a bit of a wash and change. See you in a tick.’

By the time Kathleen had sorted the patient out and found someone to give his wife a cup of tea and explain what was happening, Jack was back in Theatre, clad from head to toe in green theatre pyjamas, with a J-cloth hat and a mask.

‘Good, ennit? Just like the telly,’ he said to the man, and received a lopsided grin for his pains. ‘You know, you really ought to do something about that razor you’ve been using!’

The man chuckled. Kath knew what Jack was doing, unobtrusively trying to assess the range of movement and any possible nerve damage indicated by loss of mobility in any of the facial muscles.

She relaxed. Already gowned and masked herself, she drew up the lignocaine and opened the suture packs.

Three hours later Jack tied the last suture and stood back to survey his work.

‘Bee-ootiful.’

It was. Oh, the patient looked a mess, but Kath had seen the enormous care that had gone into the alignment of each suture, the meticulous attention not only to the innumerable tiny little muscle fibres, nerves and blood vessels but to laughter lines and wrinkles to ensure that the tissues were realigned as closely as possible to their original position. He sealed the whole area with plastic skin to prevent infection, and then stripped off his gloves and stretched.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ the patient said a little stiffly. He was going to find it rather difficult to talk for a few days, Kathleen realised.

Jack smiled warmly. ‘My pleasure. I’m afraid you won’t be Miss World again, but you’ll do. All adds character. Come back in a week for a check-up and to have the majority of the sutures out, or earlier if they give you any trouble or get infected. Try and keep them dry, and take the painkillers we’ll give you for the first few days. How did you get here?’

‘My wife drove me.’

He nodded. ‘Good. Well, get her to take you home and look after you. You’ll be off work for a week. Sister will give you a certificate, and you’ll need a follow-up next time you come if you’re still a bit sore. Hopefully you won’t need it.’

With a cheery wave he left them, and Kathleen helped the man to his feet and put him in a wheelchair.

‘Don’t want you collapsing on us—not good for the department’s reputation,’ she joked lightly, and wheeled him round and handed him over to his wife.

She found Jack in his office, leaning on the window with a cigarette in his hand.

‘You smoke!’ she said in horror.

‘Only under duress. That was a long old job. Thanks for your help.’

‘You’re welcome. You did it well. I’m sorry I asked you if you were good enough.’

He chuckled. ‘Your privilege, my darling girl. I hope you aren’t going to find me anything else to do tonight.’

‘Why, tired?’

He grinned. ‘No, I was hoping you’d join me for that drink.’

She was caught without defences, her mind still playing with the idea of being his darling girl.

‘Ah—drink?’ she said helplessly.

‘Yes, you know, as in go into a pub and order something in a glass and eat a few nuts and so on.’

She wasn’t sure about the ‘and so on’, but there didn’t seem to be any way out of it without being churlish.

‘Um—perhaps just a quick one …’

‘Am I treading on anyone’s toes?’

Toes?’

‘Yes, toes. As in, some resident lover or whatever—perhaps Mick O’Shea?’

‘Mick?’ She was startled.

He shrugged. ‘You were all over each other on Monday morning.’

‘Oh, that—no, Mick’s a friend.’

His brow arched delicately.

‘Truly! I’ve known him for years.’ She eyed Jack suspiciously. ‘What about you? I don’t suppose you’re married?’ she said bluntly.

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Are you crazy? Why would I want a wife?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Why would anybody want a wife? I’m sure there are all manner of reasons.’

He chuckled. ‘None good enough for me, I’m afraid. Never again.’

‘So you’re divorced?’

He nodded.

‘I’m not going to bed with you.’

He blinked, and caught the smile before it got away. ‘Of course not.’

‘I mean it!’

He grinned wickedly. ‘What d’you think I’m going to do, drag you behind a hanging basket and rip your knickers off?’

The image was so outrageous that she giggled. ‘All right. What time?’

‘Seven-thirty? Do you want me to pick you up?’

‘On that bike? No way, José. Just tell me where.’

‘Rose and Crown, Tuddingfield?’

She nodded. ‘OK. I’ll see you there at seven-thirty.’

Deciding she was crazy, she made her way back to her room, collected her things and was just about to leave when a man carrying a young boy walked up to the doors.

He looked a little lost, and Kathleen went up to him.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘Oh—it’s my son—he’s got cystic fibrosis, and my wife’s gone away for a few days with a friend for a break. I thought I could cope, but they sent him home from school and I just can’t seem to shift the stuff off his lungs.’

Indeed, the child was rattling and bubbling, coughing weakly and obviously in great discomfort.

Kathleen put her arm round the man’s shoulders and led him in.

‘Come round here with me, and we’ll find a physio to take care of things for you. What’s his name? Do we have any notes on him in the hospital?’

‘Anthony Craven—yes, you’ve got stacks of notes. I’m sorry, I feel such a fool. I was sure I could cope but the CF clinic people had all gone home by the time I realised I couldn’t manage—’

‘Look, don’t worry, it really isn’t a problem. I’ll get a physio. You sit in here with Anthony and I’ll be back in a tick.’

She put him in the cubicle and went back to the nursing station to phone the physiotherapy department.

After a few seconds she glanced at her watch in disgust. It was just after six, long after the time she should have gone off duty, and that was exactly what all the physiotherapists had done. She would have handed over to one of her colleagues, but somehow she just felt this case needed her personal attention.

She called the switchboard and asked them to page the physio on call, and was told she was in ITU with a patient and likely to be tied up for at least half an hour.

She cradled the phone with more force than strictly necessary, just as Jack Lawrence strolled past in his black leather gear.

‘Problems?’ he asked.

She glanced up. Nothing compared to what her heart did when she looked at him like that. He was long overdue for a shave, and the combination of the dark stubble, the tousled hair from the theatre cap and the warm smell of leather was a potent combination.

She shook her head. ‘Not really. I want a physio for a kid with cystic fibrosis, but she’s down in ITU and won’t be free for half an hour.’

Something happened in his eyes then, some kind of inner battle. It was evidently resolved, because a sort of gentle resignation settled over his features.

‘Where is he? I’ll do it.’

‘In Three, but are you sure you know——?’

He laughed, a short, strained little laugh. ‘You really don’t have any faith at all in me, do you?’ he said, and his voice sounded strangely sad. ‘Trust me. It isn’t something you easily forget,’ he added enigmatically, and with that he turned on his heel and strode back down to his office, emerging a moment later back in his normal working clothes.

The harassed father was only too glad to hand over as Jack tenderly lifted the boy, laid him on his side over some foam blocks and firmly but gently percussed his chest.

Kath watched, mesmerised. He seemed to know just where to tap, and how hard, and how long for, and bit by bit the boy’s lungs cleared and he began to breathe more easily.

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