Emergency at Bayside (8 page)

‘Meg.’

It was only a short drive, and even as the car pulled away Meg instantly felt calmer. Everything would be fine now. The hospital was in sight, and by emergency standards this wasn’t particularly serious—not in the controlled setting of a hospital anyway.

‘Thank goodness you were there.’ The woman had stopped sobbing now, and was swallowing hard to compose herself.

‘What’s your son’s name?’

‘Toby. I’m Rita.’

Meg smiled down at the little boy as the car pulled into the ambulance bay. ‘We’ll have you sorted in no time, Toby.

‘June, grab a trolley from the entrance and bring it up to the car,’ Meg instructed. But Mike the porter,
grabbing a quick smoke between jobs, had already beaten her to it. Pulling the back door open, he popped his head in. ‘Here you go, Meg—anything I can do to help?’

‘We just need him on the trolley, but I’ll have to keep his leg up and the pressure on.’

‘No worries.’

Anywhere else they would have looked a curious sight—four adults dressed in their bathers pushing a trolley with a bleeding child—but here at the Bayside Hospital they barely merited a second glance.

‘You’re starting your shift a bit early!’ Jess joked. ‘You really can’t stay away from the place, can you?’

‘I was supposed to be topping up my tan,’ Meg groaned. ‘It’s pretty deep,’ she added in low tones, so as not to frighten Toby and his mother. ‘Arterial bleed. He lost a lot of blood at the beach.’

‘Right.’ Jess nodded, bandaging a huge wad of Combine firmly into place and elevating the foot of the trolley, then taking over pressing behind Toby’s knee. ‘We’ll not disturb it until the doctor gets here. Speaking of which…’ She turned and smiled as Flynn entered.

‘What have we got here?’ He barely glanced in Meg’s direction, his eyes firmly fixed on Toby. ‘You’ve been down at the beach, I see, young man.’

‘I stood on a broken bottle.’ It was the first time Toby had spoken, and Meg smiled at the little lisping voice.

‘There was blood everywhere; he must have lost a gallon.’ This was a slight exaggeration from Rita, but Meg nodded.

‘He did lose a lot—the bleed’s arterial. I stopped it with popliteal and direct pressure and we’ve kept it elevated.’

‘Good.’ Still his eyes stayed fixed on his young charge. ‘Toby, I’m going to put a little needle into the back of your hand so I can give you some medicine to take away the pain. It will only hurt for a second. I know that you’ve been so brave up to now—can I ask you to be brave for just a moment longer?’

Toby nodded, but his mother wasn’t convinced. ‘Can’t you numb it first? He hates needles.’

‘He’ll be fine,’ Flynn said confidently. ‘Numbing it would take twenty minutes or so to take effect, and I’d like to give him some fluid thorugh a drip and take some blood. He looks a bit shocked, and I’m sure he’d appreciate something to settle him before we take the dressing down.’

But Rita wanted an anaesthetic. ‘He’ll scream the place down.’

Meg watched Flynn’s shoulders stiffen a fraction. The only person who was getting upset was Toby’s mum, and if she carried on Toby was likely to start getting anxious again.

‘Look, Rita,’ Meg suggested, ‘why don’t we go and grab a cool drink and let the doctor get on with it? It must be very upsetting for you to watch all this.’

‘Surely it would be better if I stayed?’

Meg took a deep breath. Honesty was the best policy, and all that, but she wasn’t sure how well it was going to be received. ‘It’s probably better if we go and get a drink and calm down. The drip will be up
by the time we get back and you’ll feel a lot better then.’

Rita seemed to accept this, and after a rather tearful kiss and hug with Toby allowed herself to be led away.

‘Is there anyone you’d like to ring?’ Meg offered once they were in the staff room. Given that both women were dressed in their bathers, apart from the skimpy sarong wrapped around Meg, the waiting room hadn’t seemed an appropriate place to send Rita. Anyway, Meg was desperate for a long cool drink and was sure Rita could use one.

‘Just my husband—he’s going to have a fit when I tell him.’ Her hand was shaking as she picked up the telephone. ‘Do you think Toby will need an operation?’

‘Yes.’ Meg said simply. ‘It wouldn’t be fair on Toby to try and repair it under local anaesthetic. Do you want me to dial for you?’

Rita nodded. ‘Useless, aren’t I?’

Meg shook her head. ‘Don’t say that. You’re his mum; you’re allowed to be upset.’

As predicted, Toby’s dad didn’t take the news too well, and after Rita had ducked off to the toilet for another quick cry Meg took the opportunity to ring her mother. Mary wasn’t in the best of moods either.

‘You just can’t stay away from trouble, can you? And you haven’t even had lunch. How can you do a full shift without a morsel of food in your stomach and no work clothes?’

‘I’ve got some spare shoes here, and I can wear Theatre gear. I’ll be fine,’ Meg assured her.

‘Fine, my foot.’ Not the greatest choice of words. ‘I’ll bring you up a Thermos of soup.’

‘Please, Mum, don’t bother. I’m okay. Honestly,’ she added, but with zero effect.

‘Tell that to the patients when you’re fainting over them. I’ll warm it up and bring it straight over. Do you need anything else?’

Meg looked down at her blood-splattered sarong and her sand-dusted legs. ‘A toiletry bag would be nice.’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘Where’s Rita?’ Jess popped her head around the door.

‘In the loo. How’s Toby doing?’

‘He’s going straight up to Theatre. The plastics had a quick look and they want to get him up now. They need her to come and sign the consent form. How are you?’

Meg stood up. ‘Desperate for a shower. If my mum comes can you ask her just to drop all my stuff in the changing room? I’ll be round to start my shift when I’m looking a bit more presentable.’

‘Sure. Take your time, Meg. I reckon you’ve earned it.’

Rita appeared then, and Meg left them to it. Her shift hadn’t even started and already she felt as if she’d done a day’s work.

‘There you are.’ Flynn loomed into view. ‘Where’s Toby’s mother? The plastics need her to—’

‘Sign the consent,’ Meg finished for him. ‘I know—Jess is already onto it. I’m just heading off for a shower.’

‘Oh.’ For the first time since her arrival he actually managed to look at her, his eyes flicking down her body. For the last half-hour Meg had been wandering around barefoot, her modesty protected only by a sheer sunflower-emblazoned sarong, yet totally unabashed. Now, under Flynn’s scrutiny, she suddenly felt exposed and woefully inadequately dressed.

‘There wasn’t really time to get changed first,’ Meg joked feebly.

‘Of course not.’

His eyes were looking somewhere at the top of her forehead as he cleared his throat, and Meg could have sworn that the beginning of a blush was creeping over his usually deadpan face. She should have gone then—nodded politely and dashed to the refuge of the changing rooms. But for some reason her legs simply wouldn’t obey her and she stood there mute, staring back at him, forcing his eyes to meet hers.

‘How was the beach—before all this happened, I mean?’

‘Wonderful.’

Something strange was going on. Something strange and delicious. An apparently sedate, normal conversation was taking place, but there was nothing normal about the white-hot look passing between them, and definitely nothing sedate about the pulse flickering relentlessly between her thighs or the sudden swell of her nipples, jutting against the flimsy fabric of her sarong, inching their way closer to Flynn with a will of their own.

His hand moved up to her face. Meg didn’t flinch, just stood there. The pad of his thumb gently brushed
across her cheek. ‘You’ve got sand on your face.’ Her instinct was to reach up and capture his hand, to hold it against her cheek and then guide it down slowly to her aching engorged breasts. But there was nothing she could do except stand there, terrified she might be misreading the blazing signs, painfully aware that a hospital corridor wasn’t the best place to make a complete fool of yourself if sand was the only thing on his mind.

‘Thank you,’ she said simply, the tension unbearable. ‘I’d best get on.’

The changing room was only a few steps away but it seemed to stretch on for ever.

‘Meg?’

She turned slowly, not trusting herself to speak.

‘I’m looking forward to the party on Saturday.’

Meg nodded, gripping onto the door handle for dear life. ‘Me too,’ she managed to croak, and, attempting a nonchalant exit, waited until the changing room door was safely closed before slipping onto a wooden bench and resting her burning face in her hands.

How was she going to survive the afternoon, let alone last until Saturday?

* * *

Of course the one time Meg really wanted to be busy and appear professional, the department was practically deserted. Toby was cleared out quickly, and apart from a couple of gastros and the usual lumps and bumps they remained frustratingly quiet.

‘Come on, Carla, we can practise your BLS on Annie.’

‘Oh, spare her, Meg—the poor lass spent two hours with her this morning,’ Jess responded cheerfully. ‘She’s probably seen Annie more than her boyfriend this week, haven’t you, Carla?’

‘Actually, I haven’t got a boyfriend.’

‘What? A pretty young thing like you?’ Jess clucked. ‘Surely there must be some young man you’ve got your eye on.’

Carla shrugged, but not before her cheeks darkened, and Meg watched her gaze flick over to Flynn, who was obliviously writing notes in the corner of the annexe.

‘Well, there must be some cupboards that need to be sorted,’ Meg said quickly, before Jess followed Carla’s gaze.

‘All done—by my own fair hands. Now, why don’t you go and have your afternoon tea? And maybe for once the early shift can get out on time—though I’ve probably just jinxed myself and there’ll be a busload pulling up now.’

‘Well, if we’re expecting a rush on…’ Flynn recapped his fountain pen ‘…I might get myself something from the machine to tide me over.’

Jess clapped her hand to her forehead. ‘That reminds me—the machine’s not working, I’d best ring the canteen.’

The kitchen seemed to have shrunk to minuscule proportions as Meg attempted to make coffee. The brief display of affection, the reference to Saturday— all seemed to be crackling in the air around them as Flynn opened the fridge and pulled out a rather
sad-looking yellow jelly. ‘Not exactly what I had in mind.’

Meg screwed her nose up. ‘Yuk—
and
it’s diabetic jelly,’ she added, looking at the hospital canteen label.

‘Any bread in the bread bin?’

‘What? At three o’clock? We’re right at the end of the food chain, bar the night staff.’

Even the cornflakes box was empty.

It was only then that Meg remembered her mother had dropped her off some supplies. Knowing Mary, there would be enough to feed a small third world country. She dashed off to the changing room and returned triumphant with a large thermo bag packed full with a flask and a mountain of sandwiches. ‘At least some of us come prepared,’ she said, depositing the bag on the kitchen bench. ‘Help yourself.’

‘What’s this?’ Flynn asked, opening the bag with all the relish of a child on Christmas morning.

Why Meg fibbed at this point she never knew. What she hoped to gain by having Flynn think she was a whiz in the kitchen not only eluded her, it also belied all Meg’s feminist principles. But the small white lie was out before she could stop it. ‘Just some soup and sandwiches I made.’

‘Great.’ Pulling out the shiny foil packages, he turned casually. ‘What’s in them?’

It was an obvious question and one, to Meg’s dying shame, she realised she couldn’t answer. Ignoring him, Meg concentrated on spooning sugar into two mugs.

‘What’s in the sandwiches?’ Flynn persisted.

‘I don’t know,’ she responded, flustered. ‘Ham,
cheese—whatever was in the fridge. It’s hardly decision of the day!’

‘I only asked,’ he muttered, carrying them through to the staff room as Meg followed with the drinks.

Just as they started eating Jess appeared. ‘Oh, you found them. Flynn
did
remember to tell you that your mum had dropped off your lunch—I thought he might have forgotten.’

‘This chicken’s just delicious, Meg,’ Flynn said with a mischievous glint in his eye as he took a huge bite. ‘You must give me the recipe.’

Jess flashed him a quizzical look. ‘Nice to see a man who enjoys cooking. Now, Flynn, this lass with the ulcer in cubicle three—did you want me to use Comfeel or Aquacel for her dressing? You didn’t write it on the cas card.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Flynn quipped, grinning at his own warped humour. ‘Comfeel, Aquacel—whatever’s on the dressing trolley. You choose, Jess. After all, it’s hardly decision of the day.’

As a slightly bemused Jess wandered off Meg picked up a magazine and pretended to read, ignoring his grin.

‘Great sandwiches.’

‘So you’ve already said.’

‘What’s in the flask?’

‘Soup—help yourself.’ Meg looked up. ‘And, no, I didn’t make it.’ Turning her eyes back to the magazine, Meg pretended to be engrossed in an article about the latest Hollywood scandal.

‘No, thanks. I’m not a fan of soup.’

Meg didn’t respond, just carried on pretending to read, her cheeks still flaming.

‘These will tide me over. I might head off to the new wine bar on the beach front tonight; it’s supposed to be good. Have you tried it?’

‘No.’ Why couldn’t he leave her alone to die of shame quietly?

‘What time do you finish tonight?’

The blush that had only just started to recede was coming back for an encore.

‘Nine-thirty,’ she responded, as casually as she could with her heart in her mouth. Surely this wasn’t what it sounded like?

‘Do you fancy joining me?’

Turning the page of her magazine, she found a glossy supermodel grinning back at her, brown, lithe and with an overabundance of self-confidence.

‘I would,’ Meg said lightly, though her heart was doing somersaults. ‘Except I don’t think I’d get in in a bikini and blood-stained sarong.’