In Dr Darling's Care

‘You want to tell them, or shall I?’

‘Tell…’

‘The happy pair. That the wedding’s off. That all those rose petals are going to wilt.’

‘Rose petals?’

‘Emily’s gathered every rose in Birrini,’ May said. ‘Wheelbarrows of the things.’

Lizzie stared at the woman in front of her, and May stared back.

‘Wheelbarrows?’

‘Wheelbarrows.’

‘Where’s Phoebe?’ she asked, moving on from this crazy image with some difficulty.

‘We’re minding her until you’ve faced Emily,’ May told her. ‘Phoebe or Emily… We’ll take Phoebe any day.’

Dressed and warm and feeling as close to normal as she was going to feel today, Lizzie made her way through to the single ward where Harry lay. As she reached the door she paused. There was the sound of a female voice, strained to breaking point.

‘It’s not as if you have to walk down the aisle alone. If you have a cast on, you can wait for me on crutches. Then when you reach me you can hold my hand. It’d be better if you didn’t use crutches afterwards—for the wedding march—but I’ll be able to support you then.’

Lizzie waited, expecting a reply. Nothing.

‘Harry, you must. I mean, there are two hundred people invited. We can’t tell them it’s off.’

Enough. Harry was so drugged he’d agree to anything right now, Lizzie thought, and the sooner she put paid to impossibilities the better. She swung the ward door wide and Emily looked up at her as if she was interrupting something personal. Harry, though, looked across the room to her in real relief.

‘Dr Darling.’

‘Hi.’ She crossed the room to stand beside Emily’s chair. He’d regained a little colour. Good. She pushed the cradle back from his leg. The inflatable splint she’d fixed to his leg was holding it rigid. There was still good colour in his toes, she saw with relief. But still…the sooner she had those bones fixed into place by a skilled orthopaedic surgeon the happier she’d be.

‘You don’t look like a doctor,’ he murmured, and she couldn’t help but agree.

Her jeans were clean at least, she thought. She tucked her still damp curls behind her ears and tried to look professional. What she needed was a white coat, but every white coat in the place had been bought for Harry. He must be six-two or six-three, she thought, as his coats practically swept the floor on her five-foot-six frame.

And if she didn’t look professional… ‘Neither do you,’ she told him, and he gave her a tired smile.

‘I’m not feeling like a doctor. I’m feeling very much like a patient. What’s the prognosis?’

She may as well tell it like it was. Now. ‘The prognosis is a journey,’ she told him. ‘To Melbourne. In thirty minutes.’

Emily had been holding Harry’s hand. Now she dropped it and turned to Lizzie, her face blanching.

‘What do you mean?’ she whispered, and Lizzie winced. This wedding was obviously hugely important to Emily—of course it was—but there was no escaping what must be faced. By all of them.

‘I mean Harry needs to go to Melbourne tonight,’ she said gently, turning back to the man in the bed. ‘Harry, I’ve organised the air ambulance to come straight away. They should be here in about thirty minutes to collect you.’

‘Melbourne…’ Harry said, bemused.

‘You know I can’t fix your leg here.’

‘Why not?’

So he hadn’t fully understood what she’d told him about his leg. ‘Would you like to see the X-rays?’ she asked him, producing the films she’d carried in with her. ‘That is, if you can stand seeing them without feeling ill?’

He nodded and she held them up to the light. As X-rays went, they were fairly dramatic. This was no hairline fracture. The bones were split and splintered. Even a layman could see the extent of the damage.

There was a long moment’s silence as Harry and Emily took them on board together. Then…

‘Hell,’ Harry said.

That about summed it up, Lizzie thought. She couldn’t have put it any better. ‘As you say.’

‘I’ve thoroughly busted it.’

‘There’s a comprehensive medical diagnosis if ever I heard one.’ She gave him an appreciative smile. The man had courage. ‘It’s a complete break of both tibia and fibula. You were lucky it didn’t break the skin.’

‘More than lucky.’ He held out an imperative hand and took the films from her, staring at them intently one after the other. ‘I could have blocked the blood supply.’

‘You did. I straightened the leg on the road and was really lucky to get circulation again.’ She pointed to the film. ‘But look at these shards of bone. They’re not fixed. I’ve been lucky—you’ve been lucky—but I want that leg operated on as soon as possible.’

He whistled. He stared at the film some more and then whistled again. And then he looked up at her, obviously confused.

‘When did you straighten my leg? I can’t remember…’

‘When you were unconscious.’

‘So… I have a headache,’ he murmured, thinking it through with obvious care. ‘But I’m starting to realise that maybe I owe that bump on my head a lot.’

‘It meant I could manipulate your leg while you were unconscious, yes.’

‘I guess I should be grateful to you.’

She smiled at that. ‘Well, maybe not too grateful. I did run you down.’

‘I ran straight into you,’ he told her ruefully. ‘I thought that road would be deserted. I didn’t think anyone would be staying in those holiday units at this time of year. They’re awful and the only time they’re used is in midsummer.’

‘They were the only ones that would let me take my dog.’

He nodded. His eyes were still on the X-rays. He was having trouble focusing, Lizzie thought. The morphine would be doing that. It was a wonder he was awake at all.

‘Your leg’s hurting?’

‘Not much.’

‘You make a bad liar,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll give you a top-up before the plane leaves.’