THERE were a host of both regular and holiday patients waiting for them at their first stopover the next day. And, as was to be expected in August, many waiting to be seen were children. The weather had settled down over the last few days to being pleasantly warm and sunny. Bright enough to produce several cases of sunburn.
Daniel calmly but forcefully read the Riot Act to parents with small children for allowing them to get burnt. And he patiently explained to children old enough to understand how important it was to smother themselves in protective sun cream and wear hats and tops when playing outside.
‘The kids seem to understand better than the parents,’ he told Clare, leaning on the little sill of the pharmacy window, when there was an unexpected lull between patients.
‘Perhaps that’s because they don’t have to pay for it,’ she said. ‘You’ve been prescribing it by the bucketload this morning, and not just to people with skin conditions who qualify to have it on the NHS. I’m almost out of stock and I don’t think that our esteemed manager is going to be any too pleased. It’ll make a dent in her budget.’
Daniel smiled. ‘A little extra spent now will save thousands in the future. Imagine all those kids turning up with skin cancers in a few years’ time. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘OK, Doc, you’re preaching to the converted,’ said Clare.
She was going to say something else, but further conversation was forestalled when they heard someone come into the waiting area. Never mind. She’d tell him what she’d decided during their lunch-break.
A couple of hours later, Daniel stopped in mid bite. ‘So you want me to meet your parents,’ he said, his mouth half-full of a cheese sandwich.
‘Well, that’s the general idea. And, of course, to see Dad’s wine cellar and no doubt, be offered a taster or two.’
Dan had sounded surprised. Did he think that she was being a bit too pushy, forcing the pace of whatever they had between them? Was it too old-fashioned, wanting to introduce him to her family? The tiniest flicker of doubt assailed her for a moment. But only for a moment. Of course he wasn’t thinking any of those things. They’d talked about seeing her parents the night that they’d gone to the theatre. He’d said that he wanted to meet them. It didn’t commit either of them to anything.
They were sitting outside the van on a little grassy area beside the village pond. Ducks were waddling round, waiting for scraps.
Daniel threw them the rest of his sandwich. ‘Well, there’s no way I can refuse an offer like that,’ he said. ‘Saturday or Sunday will suit me. Although…’
Clare’s heart sank. ‘Although?’
‘There’s a jazz festival on on Saturday night near Tiverton, and I was wondering…’
‘Yes?’
‘If you’d like to go to that?’
‘I’d love to,’ she said without hesitation.
‘Brilliant. Then we’ll go to the Island on Sunday.’
‘I’ll let Mum and Dad know. I’ll ring them tonight.’
They had a busy afternoon, visiting two isolated villages, both of which had only a handful of permanent residents. But their numbers were swollen with day-trippers and holidaymakers staying in various houses offering bed and breakfast. Several women had also come in from outlying farms for attention to themselves or their children.
‘Is this within your remit, Doc?’ George wanted to know when they reached the second village and found another crowd waiting for them, made up of a similar mix of people. ‘Some of them have come in cars from the farms, and most of the holiday people who are staying in the village have cars with them. Shouldn’t they go into Trewellyn to the health centre, or the casualty department at the hospital? Do you want me to sort them out, send them packing?’
Daniel grinned cheerfully. ‘Well, I don’t mind the extra work, if Clare doesn’t.’ He glanced at Clare. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think that if I were on holiday, or a busy farmer’s wife, and I had some minor injury or a kid with earache, I wouldn’t want to trek twenty or more miles for attention if there was help on the doorstep.’
‘Listen to you two,’ grumbled George. But there was admiration his voice. ‘Trying to provide a health service all on your own.’ Then he all but rubbed his hands with glee. ‘Miss Bossy-Boots back at base will be mad as a hatter.’
‘So the war still goes on between you two,’ said Daniel. ‘She’s only doing her job, you know, and doing it superbly well.’
‘I know,’ replied George, ‘but I like seeing her rise to the bait.’
The next day continued with patients in the category Clare had predicted.
There was a small girl, Trixie Saunders, with a bee-sting and a tear-stained face. ‘It bit me,’ she told Clare indignantly. ‘It sat on my arm and bit me.’
Trixie’s mother was agitated. ‘She had a beesting last year and had a dreadful reaction to it,’ she told Clare. ‘She couldn’t breathe properly and they kept her in hospital for two days until the swelling and inflammation had died down.’
‘How long ago did this happen?’ Clare asked, examining the little girl’s arm, which was slightly red and swollen, but there was nothing to indicate a severe reaction.
‘About twenty minutes ago. The people that I’m staying with told me that you were going to be here, and that it would be quicker to see you than getting her to hospital. So I thought that I’d better bring her along, although this time it doesn’t look so bad. I hope I’m not wasting your time.’
‘You are certainly not,’ Clare reassured her. ‘Bee or wasp stings are strange and can’t be accurately assessed, and can be dangerous, as you already know. It might be to do with where they’ve been harvesting nectar, from crops perhaps that have been sprayed with insecticide, or there might not be an obvious answer. Trixie here may simply be allergic to some types of venom.’
She smiled at the small girl as she swabbed the reddened area with iced sterile water, after making sure that the barb was out. She spread on a tiny smear of witch hazel and, more to please Trixie than because of need, put a tiny dressing over the puncture mark.
‘There, that should be fine,’ she said. ‘You’ve been a brave girl.’ She offered the child the sweetie jar.
‘Thanks so much,’ said Mrs Saunders. ‘I really hope we haven’t troubled you for nothing.’
Clare shook her head. ‘Not at all. You can’t be too careful with bites and stings.’
‘Say thank you to Nurse, Trixie.’
‘Thank you, Nurse.’ The little girl beamed Clare a wide, sticky red smile as they left the treatment room.
‘That’s all right, poppet,’ Clare replied. ‘It’s a pleasure.’
A desire to hug the child, sticky mouth and all, threatened to overwhelm her as a great rush of primitive maternal feelings took hold of her. This desire for a baby of her own, to hug and kiss and love as her own, was suddenly so strong as to be breathtaking. It took a moment or two, standing behind the closed door of the treatment room, to compose herself.
There was a knock at the door which was then opened a crack. ‘May I come in?’ asked Daniel.
She nodded dumbly and muttered, ‘Of course,’ since she couldn’t think of any reason not to admit him.
He said at once, ‘Are you all right?’
She could only shake her head because she was suddenly beyond speech. She felt hot tears welling up behind her eyes, tried to wipe them away, gave up and let them flood out.
And then Dan was hugging her gently to him, and she let her head rest on his chest and gave herself up to the strong reassurance of his arms. It was the first time they had ever touched like this, the most intimate they had ever been. And it felt very good.
After a minute the tears subsided. Dan offered her a handful of tissues from the treatment tray.
‘Have a good blow,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It usually helps.’
It did. She took a few deep breaths, but didn’t try to free herself from his arms.
‘I saw a child going out. Was it the same thing you felt on our first day out?’
‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘A lovely little girl…I thought that I was through with all that.’
‘Why should you be? I sometimes wish…’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but eased Clare away from him and pointed to the little corner basin. ‘Go and splash your face with cold water,’ he said. He nodded toward the waiting area, from where could be heard the shuffle of feet and murmur of voices. ‘I think our customers are getting restless. I’m afraid we’ll have to finish this conversation some other time—if you want to.’
‘I do,’ she said simply.
Then he switched into professional mode, and became brisk and businesslike once more. Clare wiped her face dry and followed his cue. Suddenly they were both professionals again.
‘There’s a heel ulcer that wants re-dressing,’ Dan said. ‘It’s an old boy who’s just come out of hospital. He was bed-bound for several days, recovering from a repair to a congenital hip injury. Although they did a good job on the hip, they didn’t do anything to prevent bed sores.’
‘It seems to happen more than it should these days,’ Clare agreed. ‘Staff aren’t used to dealing with patients who can’t get up and about—everyone is meant to be mobile within hours of an op.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Do I look reasonably tidy?’
‘You look perfect,’ he said with a smile.
Mr Fryer’s right heel had a walnut-sized cavity in it. It was impossible to clean and pack it with penicillin gauze without hurting him, in spite of the local painkiller Clare had administered.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologised, as she secured the packing in place.
‘Not your fault, Nurse.’ Mr Fryer managed a pale smile. ‘But I feel like suing the hospital for negligence, and claim compensation.’
Clare didn’t blame him, but hoped that he wouldn’t sue. Not only would it take for ever to get through all the red tape, but negligence would be hard to prove.
‘I can believe that,’ she said gently, ‘and I don’t blame you. But why don’t you write to the chief administrator and explain what’s happened, and just ask for an apology first. That way you might get some small compensation through the hospital trust, and at least have the satisfaction of registering your complaint. If you don’t make too much fuss but just state the facts simply and clearly, they might take more notice.’
She helped him on with the soft, bulky slipper he’d been wearing and gave him an arm to lean on as he got to his feet.
The elderly man straightened himself up and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of sense in what you say, Nurse. I’m not a vindictive man. I just don’t like something like this happening without anything being done about it.’
As she saw him out, Clare apologised to the three patients waiting to see her, two women and one man with a small boy. The women were fine about it, but the man was truculent.
‘You’d better see my kid next,’ he said, pushing the boy forward. ‘We bin waiting ’alf an hour.’
‘You haven’t,’ said one of the women. ‘I’ve only been here twenty minutes, and I was here before you.’
Clare smiled at her and said quietly. ‘Then you’re next in.’
The woman shook her head. ‘Let the little boy go in next,’ she said.
Neither man nor boy said anything, and it was left to Clare to voice thanks on their behalf.
The boy, Peter Gordon, was eight years old, and no more a charmer than his father. Sullenly he pushed past Clare and preceded her into the treatment room where he climbed up on the recliner and stuck one leg out.
‘It’s cut,’ he said, ‘and it ’urts.’
Clare didn’t say anything at first as she examined the superficial wound. ‘It’s not a very bad cut,’ she said shortly. ‘It only needs cleaning with an antiseptic lotion.’ It could easily have been done at home but she didn’t say anything.
‘I wanna bandage on it,’ said Peter.
‘I’ll put on a plaster,’ promised Clare. ‘Now, this may sting a little…’
Peter shrieked blue murder as she swabbed the graze with the antiseptic.
‘There now, all done,’ said Clare.
Peter’s eyes swivelled to the sweetie jar. ‘Don’t I get a sweetie, then?’ he asked truculently.
Clare couldn’t resist saying, ‘Well, you haven’t been particularly brave, have you? But since it’s holiday time…’
Their two afternoon surgeries were as busy as their morning sessions.
Charcombe, where they had held sessions in previous weeks, brought in patients for repeat prescriptions, wound dressings and other follow-up treatments. This was in addition to the now familiar mix of patients made up of residents and holidaymakers.
Both Clare and Daniel had to work flat out to keep up with the continuous stream of patients.
Clare was in the middle of cleaning up a particularly nasty varicose ulcer, syringing out a quantity of unpleasant discharge while answering the elderly patient’s questions, when there was a loud knock at the door of the treatment room. Before she could answer it, the door was thrust open and a man dressed in expensive-looking shorts, sports shirt and trainers appeared.
‘Do you mind waiting outside?’ said Clare icily. ‘Didn’t you see the “engaged” sign on the door?’
‘I saw it,’ replied the man, in an impatient, plummy voice. ‘And, yes, I do mind waiting.’ He waved a prescription sheet at her. ‘The chap in there…’ He jerked his head toward Daniel’s office.
‘Dr Davis,’ supplied Clare, her voice absolutely freezing.
‘Whoever,’ said the man indifferently. ‘He said that you would supply these.’ He pushed the prescription request under her nose. ‘But the window to the so called pharmacy is closed. What I might have expected in this miserable little village.’
Several caustic replies passed through Clare’s head, but with a tremendous effort she held onto her temper. Common sense told her that starting an argument with this unpleasant character would be pointless. Besides, in spite of his manner, he didn’t look well. He had two high spots of colour on his cheekbones in an otherwise pale, drawn face.
Not that that was any excuse for his arrogance. She was particularly incensed with his rudeness about Daniel, but she compressed her lips.
She covered the leg of her elderly patient, who was staring, round-eyed, at the intruder, and said to her reassuringly, ‘Sorry about this, Mrs Tregowen. I do apologise for the interruption. If you don’t mind, I’ll just see to this gentleman’s medicine and then I’ll be back.’ She couldn’t help the sarcastic emphasis on ‘gentleman.’
‘You go along and see to him, dear,’ Mrs Tregowen said. Her round eyes suddenly looked quite sharp and she added in an undertone, ‘He hasn’t got very long, poor man.’
As Clare ushered the man toward the pharmacy she glanced at the prescription list Dan had written out and realised with a shiver that Mrs Tregowen might be right. These were very high-powered drugs. Did the old lady know something about—she read the patient’s name from the form—Rowland Clarke? And if she didn’t, how could she tell he was so ill?
‘I’m not even sure if we’ve got them all in stock,’ she muttered under her breath.
She let herself into the tiny dispensary and motioned Mr Clarke to wait at the window.
To her relief she found everything that Daniel had prescribed. How Rowland Clarke would have reacted had she not had them she didn’t like to think. She popped the various packets and bottles into a plastic carrier and asked him to sign the script and pay his share of the total items.
‘Pay!’ he exploded. ‘I thought this was the National Health Service! What do we pay bloody crippling taxes for? I won’t damn well pay!’
Clare’s hand slid along under the tiny dispensary window sill and pressed a button, even as she forced herself to speak calmly. ‘It is the National Health Service,’ she said, ‘but all adults, except pensioners and those on income support, have to pay something toward each item prescribed. And you don’t appear to come under any of those exceptions.’
She forced a smile, hoping to lighten the mood. But there was no lightening of the aura of barely controlled anger that surrounded the sick man. He was somebody who obviously blamed the whole world for his problems instead of facing up to them. Any moment, Clare thought, he’s going to lash out at somebody or something.
Suddenly George’s reassuring bulk loomed up behind the man.
‘Is there a problem, Clare?’ George enquired mildly.
Rowland Clarke had spun round to face George, his mouth open as though to continue his tirade. But the sight of the massive ex-policeman with his unmistakable air of calm authority stopped him short.
‘Mr Clarke was a little surprised that he had to pay for his prescription,’ Clare said quietly.
George clicked his tongue sympathetically. ‘They can be a pain, right enough. Mind you, when I was a lad there was no National Health and you paid full whack for everything. If you couldn’t afford it you went without. So let’s be grateful things ain’t like that any more, eh?’
For a moment his ham-like hand rested on Rowland Clarke’s shoulder and Clare thought the fingers tightened slightly.
Clarke said nothing but his lips pinched. He felt in the back pocket of his expensive designer shorts and produced a slim wallet from which he extracted several notes. He pushed them toward Clare. ‘That enough?’ he asked grimly.
‘More than enough, thank you,’ replied Clare. She returned a note and some coins. Clarke looked at them disdainfully, then turned on his heel, brushed past George and walked out of the door, leaving his change on the sill. Clare called after him that he’d left his money, but he was gone.
Clare let out her breath and passed a slightly shaky hand over her forehead.
‘Mean devil,’ George observed. He looked back at Clare. ‘You all right, love?’
‘Yes, George. Thanks for coming so quickly.’
‘That’s what the buttons are for. Wouldn’t feel I was drawing an honest wage if they weren’t used once in a while. Well, I’ll be getting back to the cab again.’
Clare smiled after their driver. Thanks to him the whole affair had been handled so neatly and quickly that she was sure nobody else in the surgery had noticed. She slipped Rowland Clarke’s rejected cash into the hospice collecting box, then, putting the unpleasant incident out of her mind, she hurried back to Mrs Tregowen. She made a mental note to speak to Daniel about Mrs T.’s nasty ulcer. In her judgement it was going to need plastic surgery in the not too distant future.