Rivals In Practice. Alison Roberts
Читать онлайн книгу.
a moist dressing on it,’ Jennifer directed. ‘I’ll come and sort it out in a few minutes.’ She moved quickly towards the door further down the hallway as the surgery bell sounded again. Jennifer paused for a second, not wanting to enter the maternity suite until she was able to focus completely on her patient. Her level of tension needed lowering.
If the phones were out there was no way of ringing home, but Saskia was far more responsible than most girls her age. If there had been any problem getting all the children home safely, she would have found some way to contact Jennifer on her mobile. She could reach Brian on his own cellphone if absolutely necessary but calling him in to help deal with a stressful influx of casualties was the last thing Jennifer wanted to do. Wendy and Margaret were both very capable nurses. Surely even this storm couldn’t throw anything at them more than the three medical staff could deal with. There was nothing life-threatening about the injuries arriving so far and as long as Liz’s labour was straightforward, they should be fine. Jennifer took a deep breath and entered the maternity suite.
‘Sorry to have been gone so long, Liz,’ she told her patient cheerfully. ‘Let’s have a look at you and see what’s happening.’
Ten minutes later, Jennifer headed back to the treatment room. Wendy and Margaret now had Edith on the bed.
‘I’ve had a go at straightening this flap.’ Wendy looked up, the tweezers poised in her gloved hand. ‘What do you think?’
Jennifer eyed the wound. ‘Couldn’t have done better myself. Could you dress that, please, Margaret?’ She waited until Wendy had dropped her gloves into the rubbish bin near the door. ‘Liz is about six centimetres dilated so she’s definitely in labour. I’ve set up the Entonox for her to use for pain relief but it’s better if she keeps moving at the moment. Can you stay with her?’
‘Sure.’ Wendy nodded. ‘Sam McIntosh is in the consulting room with his mother. He needs looking at.’
‘What happened?’
‘Apparently the wind caught the garage door and it hit him on the head. Possibly unconscious but only very briefly. He seemed fine but rather quiet. Jill got worried when he vomited about half an hour ago. Looks like concussion.’
Jennifer knew Sam well. Six years old, he was the same age as the twins. Sam lived just down the valley from Jennifer’s property and often came to play after school. He looked pale and unusually subdued at present.
‘I’m going to shine a bright light in your eyes,’ Jennifer told the small boy. ‘Try and keep them open for me.’
She managed to complete a full neurological check and reassure Sam’s mother before another interruption occurred. This time it was her cellphone. The flash of panic that something had happened at home intensified when the caller identified himself as Robert Manson, one of the local fire officers.
‘We’ve got an accident near Barry’s Bay.’ Robert’s voice was difficult to hear over the crackle of static and the background noise of the weather and people shouting. ‘We need you on scene, Jennifer.’
‘How bad is it?’ Barry’s Bay was well away from the route the children would have taken and they had probably been home for hours by now.
‘We’ve got one of the drivers trapped. He’s unconscious. He’s the worst but we’ve got a couple more patients.’
‘I’m on my way.’ Jennifer moved fast. She was donning over-trousers and her oilskin parka by the time Wendy found her.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Car accident. We’re going to need some help, Wendy. Do any of the other nursing staff have cell-phones?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Get hold of Tom Bartlett, then, if you can. Let him know what the situation is.’ If he wasn’t already on the accident scene, their local police officer should be able to use his four-wheel-drive vehicle to round up some extra staff.
‘Do you want Brian called back?’
‘Not yet.’ Jennifer was determined to keep her partner as a last resort. She picked up the large tackle box that contained her resuscitation kit. ‘We need a bed made up for Sam. I want to keep an eye on him overnight. Run a neurological check every twenty minutes or so for now.’ She gave her nurse an anxious glance. ‘I hope I won’t be too long.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll hold the fort,’ Wendy assured her confidently. ‘Rather you than me out in that lot. It’s not going to be pleasant.’
Pleasant was an adjective almost as far removed as possible from anything that could describe the conditions Jennifer found herself in. It was now only 5.30 p.m. but it felt like the middle of the night. The wind was strong enough to rock the solid four-by-four vehicle she was driving and the rain heavy enough to virtually obliterate visibility, even with the windscreen wipers on full speed. Waves crashed against the sea wall as she crawled slowly along the foreshore on the far side of the road. The force of the sea was enough to send a river of foamy water across the tarmac. Jennifer tried to dampen her alarm but her thoughts tumbled wildly.
She could imagine a newspaper headline. LOCAL DOCTOR WASHED OUT TO SEA IN STORM. What would the article say? ‘Thirty-two-year-old Dr Jennifer Tremaine is missing, presumed drowned, having been swept from the road by a fatal combination of a southerly storm and a high tide.’
Jennifer changed gears as she reached the first hill past the township. The water level was well below her now but her imagination had been caught by the notion of the article. ‘Dr Tremaine had been practising in her home town of Akaroa for nearly six years and was well used to attending emergency call-outs in any type of weather.’ That would be true enough. They could even go to town on some of the more dramatic rescues she had been involved in. Like that one on the fishing trawler right out in the headwaters of the harbour. They could probably find the photographs that had been published on the front page of the newspaper a few years back, where the bus full of tourists had gone over the bank thanks to the snowdrifts which had obscured the side of the road. Jennifer had had her share of drama over the years but she had never encountered weather quite this vicious.
Her progress was slowed even more as she passed Duvauchelle by the hail that clogged the windscreen wipers and bounced off the bonnet of the vehicle. She smiled wryly. ‘Dr Tremaine had never intended to practise medicine in a small rural hospital,’ she invented aloud. ‘After a highly commendable record at medical school, she had every intention of moving overseas. She planned to become a specialist surgeon, attached to a world-renowned unit—probably in the United States—and become famous for her incredibly brilliant skills and the unparalleled depth of knowledge in her field.’
Jennifer snorted and abandoned the mental game. She could see the flashing lights of the rescue vehicles ahead of her as the hail changed to sleet. She was about to get very wet and very cold, working under miserable conditions to save a life that could well belong to someone that she had known since childhood. The battles she fought were often personal and victory gave a level of satisfaction she would never had found anywhere else. Certainly not in the States and probably not even as a specialist surgeon. The fates that had delivered her home were probably a lot wiser than she had been. This was where she belonged and exactly where she was needed.
Robert Manson was directing a small but dedicated team of volunteers. They were using heavy cutting equipment on a badly crumpled car jammed against the bank. Another car was further up the hill, its windscreen broken and one side badly dented. The doors hung open and Jennifer could see a woman sitting sideways on the front passenger seat, her head cradled in her hands. Another person, presumably the woman’s companion, stood motionless beside her, watching the activity down the hill. Jennifer left her own vehicle’s engine running, with the heater on a high setting and the headlights helping to illuminate the rescue scene. She pulled her resuscitation kit from the back and joined the group of men between the fire engine and the car.
‘Hi, Jenny!’ Robert had to shout over the noise of the cutting gear. ‘Sorry