A Nurse to Trust Read online

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE long day, under the pressure of work and growing humidity, deteriorated as the afternoon wore on until it fizzled out at last to an exhausted halt. They were all tired. Even George, who seldom seemed weary, had a little moan as he began the process of closing down the surgery. It took longer than usual despite the practice they’d had over the weeks at getting it down to a fine art.

  But finally they were done, and gratefully climbed aboard and started the journey home.

  ‘A shower and then a long, cold beer,’ Dan said with feeling. ‘That’s my agenda for this evening.’

  ‘Amen to that, Doc,’ agreed George.

  Clare was too tired to say anything. Despite her best efforts, she hadn’t been able to completely dismiss Rowland Clarke from her mind. Already tired and hard-pressed, the afternoon for her had deteriorated from that point. Old Mrs Tregowen’s remark about him not having long, presumably meaning that he hadn’t long to live, had tainted her thoughts. Clarke had been pushy, unpleasant and even a little frightening, but the thought that he might be at death’s door was ghastly.

  It was only once they were on the move, with the windows of the cab wide open, each of them sipping fizzy mineral water from bottles that George kept in the cold box stored beneath the seat, that Clare began to relax a little.

  ‘About Rowland Clarke,’ she said. ‘He’s pretty sick, isn’t he?’

  Dan blinked at her for a moment. ‘Clarke? I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I was furious with him for being so rude, but when I saw the stuff you’d put him on, I wasn’t really surprised. He’s got tuberculosis, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yep, poor bloke, though he’s not infectious at the moment. He was discharged from hospital on condition that he went somewhere to convalesce, and he chose here. He’s staying with an old aunt, Admiral Clarke’s widow, and forgot to bring his drugs with him. I wouldn’t have written him up for more without checking, but I knew it was safe since the Clarkes have been on our list for years and are totally trustworthy. He’s pretty disorientated. Apparently his wife left him a few weeks ago to add to his misery and he’s at his wit’s end.’

  ‘I thought he must have some pretty deep problems from the way he behaved.’

  Suddenly she remembered that Daniel hadn’t sent Mr Clarke’s temporary resident’s form through with the prescription list. Damn, she should have remembered that before they’d shut up shop. Once you let the paperwork get out of hand, however much one hated it, it was fatal. The mobile surgery was still proving itself. It had to show that it was both economical and efficient.

  ‘Did you fill in a temporary residents form for Mr Clarke?’ she asked Daniel gently.

  Dan looked crestfallen. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said. ‘I meant to, but he was in such a…’

  ‘Temper,’ Clare suggested.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Needs professional help, that bloke,’ George interjected. ‘A shrink, I mean.’

  ‘You may right, George,’ Dan agreed. ‘Maybe I should contact somebody about counselling.’

  ‘If he’ll take it,’ Clare said.

  ‘There’s always that possibility. Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t warn you about him, or get him to fill in a temporary resident’s form. We’ll sort that out next week when we come through. Remind me to get in touch with old Mrs Clarke. She’ll see that he does the right thing.’

  ‘He looks well heeled enough to be a private patient, but he seemed unwilling to pay his share of the NHS prescription charges,’ Clare said.

  She couldn’t keep the bitter note out of her voice. The wretched man really had got under her skin with his arrogance, and the indifference he had shown to Mrs Tregowen. She could feel Daniel looking at her, but kept her face averted as she stared out of the side window. I’m behaving childishly, she told herself, but couldn’t do anything about it. Even George seemed to be able to excuse him for his unpleasant behaviour.

  Daniel said softly, ‘Mr Clarke’s been in hospital for a long time and, having his medication supplied regularly, he’s probably forgotten that drugs cost money. As to whether he can afford to go private, I really wouldn’t know. Rich or poor, everyone’s entitled to be treated under the NHS, are they not?’

  Clare could hear an edge of reproach in his voice. She had disappointed him. Now was the moment to apologise, but the words wouldn’t come.

  But, of course, Dan was right. Everyone was entitled to treatment. She’d never questioned it before and wasn’t really questioning it now. What she was really raging against, she realised, was yet another example of men’s attitude toward women. Rowland Clarke’s almost sneering contempt of both her and Mrs Tregowen, as if he despised all women, revolted her. But perhaps he had good cause, by his narrow standards, if his wife had just left him and he was desperately ill. Yes, she’d have to make allowances for that.

  With a tremendous effort she pushed the dark thoughts aside and smiled at Dan.

  ‘Sorry. I let him get to me. Stupid and unprofessional. Let’s forget Rowland Clarke. George sorted him out without any fuss in the end.’

  Dan gave a puzzled frown. ‘What do you mean?’

  With a start Clare realised that she hadn’t told Dan about using the panic button. They’d been so busy and then so exhausted after finishing that she had simply not had the e
nergy to bring it up sooner. And George hadn’t mentioned it, of course, because he wouldn’t want to make a big thing of it.

  ‘Oh, Mr Clarke made a bit of a fuss about paying for his prescription,’ she explained. ‘I was worried that he might turn violent so I pressed the button…’ She trailed off as she saw anger and dismay mingling on Dan’s face, and added quickly, ‘But it was all right. George calmed him down. It was all over in a few seconds. No harm done.’

  But Dan would not be placated.

  ‘I never dreamed that Clarke would do anything like that! And why the hell didn’t you call out to me? I was practically next door!’

  ‘But the whole idea of the system was that it wouldn’t alarm the other patients. And it worked perfectly. George was there in seconds and they never realised anything was wrong.’

  ‘I don’t care how well it worked! If it ever happens again you don’t wait for George. Never take any chances like that again, do you hear me?’

  Clare bridled. She would not be dictated to like that.

  ‘I acted as seemed best in the circumstances according to my professional judgement,’ she said icily. ‘I will continue to do exactly the same in the future. I won’t be ordered around like some half-witted first-year nurse!’

  ‘When it’s a question of your safety, you’ll do as you’re told!’ Dan snarled back.

  With a bump and hiss of brakes, the surgery pulled off the road and came to a halt.

  ‘Outside, both of you!’ George said, jerking his thumb towards the empty moorland around them. ‘Maybe some fresh air will cool you off. You can come back inside when you’ve stopped shouting at each other.’

  Such was the tone of authority in his words that they obeyed automatically, almost like chastened children.

  In a daze they walked twenty yards away from the narrow ribbon of tarmac that snaked its way across the great rolling expanse of moorland, then turned to face each other again. There were tears in Clare’s eyes now.

  ‘Not again,’ she sniffed miserably. ‘I thought we’d finished with these stupid scenes.’

  Dan’s fists were clenched so that his knuckles were white. His mouth was a pinched line, his eyes wide with despair.