TOP-NOTCH DOCS

He’s not just the boss, he’s the best there is!

These heroes aren’t just doctors,

they’re life-savers.

These heroes aren’t just surgeons,

they’re skilled masters. Their talent and

reputation are admired by all.

These heroes are devoted to their patients.

They’ll hold the littlest babies in their arms,

and melt the hearts of all who see.

These heroes aren’t just

medical professionals. They’re the

men of your dreams.

He’s not just the boss, he’s the best there is!

Anne Fraser was born in Scotland, but brought up in South Africa. After she left school she returned to the birthplace of her parents, the remote Western Islands of Scotland. She left there to train as a nurse before going on to university to study English Literature. After the birth of her first child, she and her doctor husband travelled the world, working in rural Africa, Australia and Northern Canada. Anne still works in the health sector. To relax, she enjoys spending time with her family, reading, walking and travelling.

Recent titles by the same author:

DR CAMPBELL’S SECRET SON

Dear Reader

This is my second novel for Mills & Boon, and believe me it is just as exciting for me as getting my first one published.

It is such an honour to be part of a reading tradition that is a hundred years old. I can imagine our grandmothers and mothers reading the same romances through the years, and although times and settings have changed, the basics of a good romance are still the same—hunky men and gorgeous women that we know just have to be together.

I love writing romances because you can set them anywhere in the world. My husband, baby daughter and I spent fifteen months in Africa. While my husband—a doctor—looked after the patients, I looked after our daughter and taught part-time at a local school. Evening meals were taken communally, in ‘staff house’, and it was there I would listen to the doctors and aid workers discussing their days. I think back to the community often and wish we could have done even more. Things have improved a great deal since our time there, but there is still a lot that needs doing. So many children have lost their parents to HIV/AIDS. Therefore I plan to donate some of the earnings of this book to the children of Africa.

I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Best wishes

Anne Fraser

HER VERY SPECIAL BOSS

BY

ANNE FRASER

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my husband Stewart and all the doctors and nurses

who work in remote communities for no other reason

than the love of medicine.

CHAPTER ONE

KIRSTY kicked the tyre viciously and squealed in agony as a jolt of pain shot through her ankle. Damn, damn, damn, she cursed as she hopped around on one foot. Could this day—could her life—get any worse?

As if the twelve-hour journey in the cramped rear of the Jumbo hadn’t been bad enough, the airline had lost her luggage. And then, instead of being collected, as she had anticipated, she had found that she had to make the five-hour journey to the hospital on her own in this heap of a car. Keys and directions had been left for her, along with a short note explaining that her driver had to be elsewhere and they would expect her before nightfall. It had taken her much longer than she’d anticipated to navigate herself onto the road heading north and she had found herself going in the wrong direction at least once. What sort of place was this she was going to that they couldn’t be bothered to look after their new staff? What on earth had she let herself in for?

She was tired—no, scrap that, exhausted—and had planned to catch up on some sleep on the journey to the hospital. Instead, here she was in the middle of nowhere, under an endless African sky, with a flat tyre and no idea of how to go about changing it. Under these circumstances back home, she would have phoned road recovery to come to her aid or, failing that, some friend. But here she couldn’t even call for help. She hadn’t got around to converting her mobile phone so that it would work in this country.

Impatiently she swallowed the lump in her throat. No use feeling sorry for yourself, girl, she told herself. She gritted her teeth and studied the directions on the piece of paper in her hand. It looked as if the hospital was only three or four miles along the road—a walkable distance. The air was hot and turgid and Kirsty was aware that if she weren’t careful her pale skin would burn. She should have worn jeans and walking boots, but she had wanted to make a good first impression, so had decided on a white linen blouse, skirt and heels instead. Her shoes with their delicate kitten heels might be the last thing in fashion, but they were no good for a long walk.

One last glance up and down the empty road confirmed what she suspected. She was going to have to complete the rest of the journey on foot. Kirsty had no idea when darkness would fall, but she guessed she’d better get going if she were to make the hospital in daylight.

Alternatively, she could stay in the car. Someone would come looking for her eventually, wouldn’t they? But what if they didn’t? Kirsty shivered at the thought of spending the night on her own. This country was too strange, too vast for her to feel safe, even within the locked doors of the car.

Grabbing her handbag and the tepid water bottle, she set off. The more time she wasted, the more likely it was that she would find herself walking in the dark.

The red dust beside the road coated her shoes as she walked and her ankle began to ache painfully. It was all Robbie’s fault, she thought bitterly. If it weren’t for him she’d never have made the journey to this godforsaken place.

An hour later and, although the sun was beginning to sink in the sky, it was still almost unbearably hot. Kirsty had finished the water and her tongue was beginning to stick to the roof of her mouth. Caked in sweat, she could taste the dust that seemed to cover her body from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. She had discarded her shoes and was walking gingerly on blistered feet. She felt her spirits lift for a moment as she saw the matchbox sized shapes of houses in the distance. Perhaps it was the village where the hospital was based? If not, at least there would be people whom she could ask for help.

Kirsty sat down on a rock and rubbed her feet. She would rest for a few moments, not much longer than five minutes, and then carry on. The chance of her reaching help before darkness fell was small but she also knew that once darkness came, her journey would be much more hazardous. Without streetlights, there would be nothing to guide her steps. An eerie cry in the distance brought her to her feet. Were there wild animals out here? Maybe she should have stayed with the car. Instead, she now risked getting mauled by a lion or some other wild animal.

After a short rest, Kirsty forced herself on. Despite walking for another age, the matchbox houses stayed matchbox size. Just when she thought she could walk no further, she saw the flash of sunlight on an approaching car in the distance. Please, let them stop, she prayed. At least if they wouldn’t give her a lift they might have a phone she could use.

She almost cried with relief when the car slowed down before making a U-turn and coming to a stop beside her. The driver wound down the window and Kirsty found herself looking into a pair of glittering blue eyes.

‘Dr Kirsty Boucher?’ a deep voice said incredulously, adding before she could reply, ‘Good grief, woman, what on earth are you up to?’

Relief that the occupant was someone who knew who she was gave way to annoyance. Did he, whoever he was, think she enjoyed walking in her bare feet in temperatures that surely must be close to 100 degrees? Did he think she was the archetypal mad Englishwoman? She opened her mouth to tell him as much when he turned his face and she noticed the scars that ran from his right ear to his jawbone. Years of medical training meant that she was able to disguise her shock, but perhaps not as well as she thought. Or maybe it was an instinctive response, but the man passed his hand over the scar before leaping out of the car and coming around to stand in front of her.

Kirsty felt dwarfed by his massive frame, despite being over five feet eight in her bare feet. She took an involuntary step backwards.

‘I’m Greg. Greg du Toit,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘We expected you hours ago. What happened?’

Kirsty’s heart sank. This wasn’t how she had imagined her first meeting with Dr du Toit, her new boss and the physician superintendent of the hospital. Somehow she had assumed he’d be much older. The man in front of her looked to be no more than thirty.

‘Puncture, back a few miles,’ was all Kirsty could manage through her dry mouth.

‘And there wasn’t a spare in the boot? Someone’s head is going to roll. I tell them never to allow the cars to go out without checking. But come on, let’s get you out of the heat.’ For a moment he peered into Kirsty’s face. ‘And get you a drink of water. For God’s sake, don’t you know the first rule of Africa? Always carry plenty of water.’

Once again, Kirsty felt herself prickle with annoyance. He had no right to speak to her like she was some schoolgirl. OK, so she should have been able to change a tyre, but he should have ensured that the car she had been left was in better condition. Maybe for the time being she should let him believe that there hadn’t been a spare tyre? No, she couldn’t do that. If he found out, she would look an even greater idiot than she did already.

She sank gratefully into the cool seat of the four-by-four and she felt his eyes on her as she gulped greedily at the bottle of water he held out to her. When she had finally slaked her thirst she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.

‘There was a spare wheel. I, er…I couldn’t remove the bolts,’ she lied. Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie. They were probably so rusted that she wouldn’t have managed anyway. She glanced down at her perfectly manicured hands, which bore no evidence of having been anywhere near a toolbox, and quickly hid them under her thighs. It was only a white lie, she told herself. She just couldn’t cope with this man’s disdain. Not now. Not today. Her should-have-been wedding day. Swallowing hard, she pushed the thought away. She had promised herself she wouldn’t think about it.

Greg glanced at his watch. ‘How far back is the car? Are you up to going back for it? I don’t want to leave it too long or we might find it stolen or dismantled by the time we get around to recovering it. We’re pretty short of cars at the complex.’ He smiled and all of a sudden the grim lines of his face relaxed. For the first time Kirsty looked at him properly. He really was quite attractive, if in a rugged sort of way, she admitted to herself. Not even the scar detracted from his looks. In an odd way, it even made him seem more vital somehow. Kirsty was already getting the distinct impression that this was a man who was used to people following his orders. Not that she would ever find another man attractive again—not after Robbie. Men were a thing of the past as far as she was concerned. She closed her eyes against the memories. She must stop thinking of the past and concentrate on the present. What was he suggesting? She stifled the protest that came to her lips. Go back? All she wanted was something to eat, a shower and a bed—and not necessarily in that order.

Still, Kirsty was painfully aware that the impression she had created so far was a million miles away from the one she had meant to make. Instead of the immaculately turned-out, efficient, career doctor she had hoped to present, here she was, bedraggled, dirt smeared and seemingly woefully unable to look after herself. Having to be rescued by her new boss had never been part of the plan.

‘Of course we should go back. It shouldn’t take long.’ She straightened in her seat. ‘I suppose they’ll keep me some dinner?’ She couldn’t quite erase the plaintive note from her voice.

Once again she felt his appraisal. This time she was conscious of his gaze taking in her dishevelled appearance and her scratched and bleeding feet. He frowned as he started the car.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, steering the car back onto the road in the direction from which he’d come. ‘You must be exhausted, as well as starving.’ Again that brilliant flash of teeth. ‘I’ll take you to the hospital and come back with one of the others. We usually eat around seven. If we hurry, you’ll just have enough time to freshen up before dinner. It’ll mean waiting for your luggage, I’m afraid, but I’ll bring it over as soon as I can.’

‘There’s no luggage,’ Kirsty told him. ‘It’s been delayed. Lost somewhere between here and Timbuktu, I imagine. I’ll have to find a way of collecting it from the airport tomorrow. Supposing they manage to find it.’ She couldn’t help sighing at the thought of a repeat journey the next day. But at least she’d have slept by then.

Greg muttered something under his breath that Kirsty suspected she wasn’t supposed to hear. ‘Bloody airlines. Still, it can’t be helped. The driver who was supposed to pick you up, but decided not to come at the last minute, can collect it on his way tomorrow. I did try to contact you to tell you to find yourself a hotel for the night, but I couldn’t get through on your mobile. I phoned the airport and they told me you had collected the car and were on your way. These roads aren’t safe for a single woman, especially at night. When you didn’t arrive by the time we expected you, I thought I’d better come looking. Just as well I did. You don’t look as if you were in any shape to finish the journey on foot.’

Once again Kirsty felt chastised, although it was hardly her fault. Instead of apologising—after all, the car was the hospital’s responsibility—the man was making it clear she was causing a lot of extra work.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, willing her voice to remain steady. ‘I really didn’t plan to cause all this bother.’

‘No problem,’ he said brusquely, but somehow Kirsty didn’t believe him. She was beginning to think she had made a dreadful mistake in coming here. She wondered bleakly if she would be able to work with this man. He was far too autocratic for her liking and already seemed to have taken against her. But there was nothing she could do about it right now. She was far too tired to think logically so she closed her eyes and within minutes was fast asleep.

She was jolted from her dreams by the sound of an explosion. She opened her eyes to see a minibus swerve erratically across the road in front of them, bits of rubber flying from a rear tyre. Disorientated, Kirsty sat bolt upright in her seat and, as Greg veered to avoid the out-of-control vehicle in front of them, she spread her hands to brace herself for impact. For several breath-taking moments the minibus continued to career from one side of the road to the other, churning up clouds of dust in its wake before finally spinning off the road. Its front wheels hit a shallow ditch and Kirsty held her breath as, with the sound of crunching metal, the vehicle slowly tipped over on its side.

As Greg carefully brought his vehicle to a halt at the side of the road, Kirsty was immobilised with horror. She was barely conscious of him leaning across her to open the cubbyhole and scrabble for something inside, except, incongruously, the clean lemony smell of his skin.

‘Double-glove before you do anything,’ he said tossing an unopened pack of latex gloves onto her lap before reaching into the back for his medical bag. ‘Let’s go,’ he ordered, and, without waiting for a response, was out of the car. Hastily, Kirsty pulled on the gloves and followed.

It all felt surreal to her. The music emanating from the vehicle’s unbroken stereo system was a blast of happy sounds, a sharp, eerie contrast to the moaning and crying voices and the still-spinning wheels of the tilted minibus. Bodies spilled out and lay around, arms and legs twisted at unnatural angles. Still others were slowly extracting themselves from their seats and stumbling, zombie-like, away from the disaster.

Despite the warmth of the African sun on her bare arms, she shivered. For God’s sake, she thought, I’ve been in the country less than four hours and a doctor for not much longer. This can’t possibly be happening.

‘Dr Boucher—Kirsty.’ She became aware of a hand on her arm and looked up into calm blue eyes. ‘I have to phone for help. In the meantime you have to start triaging the casualties.’ He turned from her and opened the boot of his car. He shoved a pile of lines and bags into her unwilling arms. ‘Take this. Once you’ve finished triaging, put in lines where you need to.’ She looked at him, still in shock. He shook her arm impatiently. ‘Look, you can do this. I need you to help me.’ He held her eyes for a few moments, and then with a final shake of her arm he was gone.

Out of the corner of her eye, Kirsty became aware of a small figure stumbling away from the wreck. A child, no older than two, toddled purposefully up the side of the ditch towards the road. It was the impetus she needed to shake her loose from the paralysis that had gripped her in the first dreadful minutes since the crash. ‘Stop! Come back!’ she called out. Tossing the equipment Greg had given her onto the passenger seat, she lunged for the child, grabbing the small bundle seconds before he reached the road. The frightened and bewildered child squirmed in her arms. She looked around at the passengers and, finding a woman who seemed uninjured, thrust her small charge into the woman’s arms.

‘Hold onto him. Don’t let him go. Not even for a second.’ She wasn’t sure if the woman understood her words, but she must have understood her meaning as she engulfed the child in her embrace.

‘Move away from the bus,’ Kirsty instructed her. Still unclear whether the woman understood, she indicated a stretch of ground away from the bus and the road. ‘Bus could explode,’ she added miming an explosion with her arms. Thankfully the woman seemed to grasp enough of the exchange and moved away with her charge.

Kirsty retrieved the equipment Greg had given her and scrambled down the slope to the bus, oblivious to the small stones that scraped her bare legs and feet. The vehicle had come to rest at the bottom of the ditch, its front badly crumpled. The wheels on the driver’s side had mounted a small hillock and the bus tilted precariously over to the left. The driver had been thrown through the windscreen and hung there like a casually tossed rag doll. Kirsty reached up and felt for a carotid pulse. As she suspected, the driver was dead.

Moving around the front of the bus, she attempted to open the passenger door. Unfortunately the angle of the bus prevented her from opening it more than a few inches. Through the narrow gap, she could see that there were two more people in the front seat—an elderly man, who was conscious and moaning with pain, and a young woman, who was crying but seemed uninjured. She recalled her training. It’s the quiet ones you have to worry about. With these words ringing in her head, she decided that both casualties could wait until she had assessed the rest. ‘You are going to be fine,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. In the meantime, try not to move.’ With a final reassuring smile she left them and went to check up on the remainder of the passengers. Despite her initial impression, most of them seemed relatively unhurt, apart from possible fractures, lacerations and shock. They too could wait. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she promised the frightened and shocked figures. ‘Those that can, move away from the bus. The rest of you, keep as still as you can.’

Leaving them she found Greg bent over a young man in his early twenties, doing chest compressions. He had been joined by a middle-aged woman who, apart from a few cuts and bruises, seemed to have escaped from the minibus unscathed.

‘This is Sister Matabele,’ Dr du Toit said tersely, barely glancing at Kirsty ‘She was on her way to work in a taxi when the accident happened. She’ll help me here. You carry on treating the rest of the casualties. The paramedics should be here shortly.’

Before Kirsty had a chance to move, a voice called urgently. ‘Help! Over here!’

She hurried over to where a man was cradling a woman on the ground a short distance from the wreckage. She bent over the woman who was lying pale and unconscious. ‘My wife—she needs help. She was awake until just now. Now she is asleep. She is bleeding very badly from her leg, I think.’

Kirsty checked that the woman’s breathing was unrestricted before examining her. Her pulse was rapid and weak. The heart was still beating, but only just. Swallowing her fear, she removed the T-shirt the woman’s husband had laid over the wound. Gently lifting the fabric, she revealed a hole the side of a child’s fist at the top of her leg. Bright red femoral blood pulsed onto the ground.

Once again Kirsty felt the rising paralysis of her fear. Keep calm, she told herself. You’ve dealt with worse than this before. But that had been in the controlled environment of a large inner-city A and E department with the latest equipment and a team of experienced doctors and nurses. Nothing could have prepared her for this. She looked over for Dr du Toit, but he was still bent over his patient. For the time being she was on her own. These two people were depending on her. She needed to stop the bleeding, and soon. She placed her hand over the wound and pressed down hard. Her hand wasn’t enough to stem the gushing flow of blood. She needed something bigger. A quick glance around told her there was only one option. Taking a deep breath to calm her shaking hands and to steady her voice, she slipped off her linen blouse, placing it onto the hole in the woman’s leg. ‘Hold this. Press down hard,’ she instructed the frightened man, taking his hand in hers to demonstrate exactly what she wanted him to do. Kirsty knew if the woman were to stand a chance, she would have to replace the blood she had lost with fluid as quickly as possible. Kirsty used one of the lines she had been given and, ripping off the protective cover from the needle with her teeth, slipped the needle into a vein in the arm. Bingo! she thought with some satisfaction as she hit the vein first time. ‘What’s your wife’s name?’ she asked the distraught man.

‘Maria. Is she going to be all right?’ Kirsty heard the fear in his voice. She smiled and kept her voice low and calm. ‘I’m sure she will be,’ she said, although she wasn’t sure at all. ‘Talk to her. Let you know that you’re here. Reassure her.’

As she worked on her patient, she felt a shadow fall on her shoulders. She glanced up to find Greg looking down at her. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked from what seemed to be a great distance. ‘Do you need any help? My patient is breathing by himself now. Thank God Sister Matabele was here to help. She’ll stay with him until the ambulances arrive.’

‘This is Maria. She has a ruptured femoral artery. I’ve applied pressure and got a drip going. Her pulse and blood pressure are up, but we need to get her to hospital stat.’

Greg examined the woman briefly but expertly. ‘She’s doing fine for the time being. Good work,’ he said warmly. ‘I’ll carry on assessing the rest. I’ll let you know if I need you. But first…’

Kirsty felt him wrap something around her shoulders. ‘Apart from the obvious distractions of a half-naked woman, you’ll get sunburnt unless you cover up.’ He smiled down at her and despite the situation, Kirsty could have sworn she saw a wicked twinkle in his eyes. Suddenly very aware that she was dressed only in her bra and skirt, the colour rose in her cheeks. Quickly she slipped her arms into the shirt. She needed to roll up the sleeves several times and it came well below the hem of her skirt. Her day was going from bad to worse. Now she was dressed like some kind of hobo. Never, in a month of Sundays, would she normally be found less than perfectly groomed. She shook her head impatiently. What was wrong with her? Thinking about clothes at a time like this!

‘Someone! Please. Over here!’ Another cry for help, but before Kirsty could react, Greg was already moving. Within seconds he was crouched beside the bus. A moment later he called out, ‘I need assistance over here.’

There was little more Kirsty could do for Maria for the time being. In calm, measured tones she instructed her helper to keep pressure on the wound and, grabbing one of the uninjured passengers, told him to keep the bag of fluid raised. Once she was satisfied that her patient was in capable hands, she hurried over to Greg.

He was kneeling by the side of the bus, his mouth set in a grim line. The upper body of a young woman in her late teens or early twenties was visible from under the bus.

‘This is Lydia,’ Greg told Kirsty tersely. ‘Her right leg is pinned underneath the bus.’

‘I don’t know how I missed her,’ Kirsty said, upset.

‘Hey, it’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known she was here. We need to give her some morphine and get some fluids into her while we work out how we can get her out.

‘We’re going to give you something for the pain,’ Greg told the frightened young woman, taking a syringe of morphine from Kirsty. ‘We’ll have you out just as soon as we can.’ While Greg administered the pain relief Kirsty set up a drip.

Large brown eyes darted from Greg to Kirsty. ‘My son. I need to find my son. Please.’ Lydia squirmed, trying to pull her leg from under the broken fender.

‘Is your son a toddler of about two? Wearing a blue jumper?’ Kirsty asked.

‘Yes, yes. Did you see him? Is he all right?’

‘He’s perfectly fine. Someone’s looking after him. We’ll bring him over to you once we’ve got you sorted.’

Lydia’s head sank back on the ground. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered gratefully, before closing her eyes.

Kirsty looked at Greg. ‘How are we going to remove her safely?’

‘The pressure from the bus on her leg is probably helping to stem the bleeding.’ Greg said softly, his voice thoughtful. ‘We’ll wait until the ambulance gets here, then we’ll have help to lift the bus. We’ll need to be ready to control the bleeding.’

To Kirsty’s relief, the wailing of sirens signalled the arrival of the ambulances. There were two, each with a paramedic. ‘Tell the paramedics to deal with the injured, but get the drivers over here,’ Greg told Kirsty.

As the paramedics set about seeing to the other patients, the two burly ambulance drivers came over to the wrecked minibus.

‘OK, guys. Once I’m finished here, I need you to lift the bus. Kirsty, you keep the leg stabilised while I pull her out. Watch out for any sudden haemorrhage. It’s quite possible the weight of the bus is preventing us from seeing any big bleeders, but once we lift it, that’s when we’ll know the true extent of her injuries. Get ready to apply pressure.’

Greg knelt and said something to the woman in a language Kirsty didn’t understand. But whatever it was, it seemed to reassure her because she nodded and even managed a small smile.

At Greg’s count of three the two ambulance drivers lifted the minibus, their muscles bunching with the effort. The vehicle was lifted a couple of inches, but it was just enough for Greg to gently pull Lydia out. Once she was clear, the men let the bus drop with gusty sighs of relief.

Although Lydia’s leg was a mess, clearly broken several times with her tibia showing white through her ebony skin, the anticipated spurting that would indicate a torn artery failed to materialise. Kirsty breathed a sigh of relief and bent to cover the wounded leg with padding before stabilising it with one of the inflatable splints the ambulancemen had brought over.

‘The rest of the patients are loaded and ready to go, apart from this one,’ one ambulanceman informed the two doctors. ‘The rest are walking wounded and one of the passers-by will bring them in by car.’

Greg looked at Kirsty and grinned, dimples appearing at either side of his mouth. His smile sent a shiver down her spine ‘Good work. Not bad at all for a city girl.’

Kirsty felt inordinately pleased at his praise but before she could think of a reply he went on, ‘I’ll need to go in the ambulance with the two critical patients. Would you mind driving my car?’

‘Wouldn’t you prefer me to go in the ambulance?’ Kirsty asked.

‘I think you’ve had enough of a baptism by fire for the time being, don’t you? The keys are in my car. Just follow the ambulance,’ he said, continuing to supervise the loading of his patients. ‘The hospital is only a few miles up the road. I’ll see you there.’

Kirsty decided the easiest thing to do was to do as she was told. She hurried over to his Jeep and leapt in. She spent a couple of minutes familiarising herself with the vehicle. She had to move the seat at least a foot forward before she could reach the pedals.

Driving in convoy, they arrived at the hospital as evening descended. Kirsty was oblivious to the setting sun casting its halo of orange rays behind low, distant mountains. Instead, her only thoughts were for the accident victims and the doctor who’d worked so unstintingly to help them. What had caused the scarring on his face? It looked like burns. She had noticed that his right hand was also scarred, although the movement didn’t seem impaired. Despite his rather cool manner, there was something about him that inspired confidence. Kirsty was sure he’d be a patient, if demanding teacher. She knew that if the rest of her new colleagues were half as skilled and dedicated as he was, she was going to find being part of the team an experience she wouldn’t want to miss. For the first time she was really able to believe that coming to Africa might be so much more than simply running away from her past.

When the ambulance doors opened, a squad of staff surged around the injured. There wasn’t time for introductions as Greg barked orders to them, instructing which patients needed to go immediately to Theatre and which required X-rays and tests before a proper diagnosis of the extent of their injuries could be determined.

‘Jamie, take this one will you? Kirsty, give the boy to Sister Shange here. Elspeth, what’s the status of the other casualties?’

‘Would you like me to assist in Theatre?’ Kirsty asked.

Greg stared at her, as if for a moment he couldn’t remember who she was.

‘I think you’ve done enough for the time being. We’ll cope from here on. If you give me a minute, I’ll find someone who can show you to your quarters.’

‘But…’ Kirsty started to protest.

Greg lifted a hand to stem the flow of words. ‘I don’t have time to argue. You don’t know the layout of the department. Right now, we’ve enough staff to help. You’ll only get in the way. Please,’ he added firmly, ‘leave it to us.’ Then he smiled as if to soften his words.

Kirsty glared at him, her eyes flashing. He was treating her like some incompetent medical student.

Greg must have sensed her frustration. He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘You did very well back there. Now go get some rest. You’ll be in a better position to help tomorrow.’ He turned his back to her, but not before something in those cool blue eyes told Kirsty it’d be useless to argue further. Reluctantly she looked at his retreating back.

* * *

Later that night as Greg wrote up his notes, he thought about Kirsty. The image of her standing before him in his bloodstained shirt and the short skirt which did nothing to hide her long slim legs kept intruding on his thoughts. She was undeniably attractive with her thick auburn hair escaping from her ponytail and her elfin face with those flashing green eyes. Although on the surface she appeared sophisticated, there was something vulnerable about her—and it wasn’t just her age. He cursed under his breath. She had only been qualified for a couple of years. Despite the way she had performed at the accident scene, she was still far too inexperienced to work in such a remote and challenging setting. He had tried to refuse to accept her as a member of his new team, but had been overruled by the hospital manager. ‘You can’t keep working night and day, Greg,’ he had said. ‘This hospital should have twelve doctors, not the four we have. We need help, at least your colleagues do, and it’s not as if we’re overrun with applications to come and work here. You might be able to work all the hours God sends, but your colleagues need a break. If they don’t get some time off, we could lose them.’

There was no denying his argument, but Greg knew to his cost that an inexperienced doctor could be worse than no doctor at all. With her delicate features and slim build, Kirsty looked as if she had just come out of medical school, although he knew that she was twenty-five. The last thing he needed was to babysit some inexperienced doctor who thought spending a few months in a rural hospital in Africa would be fun or, worse, a good way of practising newly acquired medical skills. He’d had enough of those types in the past and they had proved more of a hindrance than a help. Most of them had only stayed a short while. Long enough to realise that the incredibly long hours and hard work was too much.

He shook his head in frustration. He had been tempted to take Kirsty up on her offer of help earlier. Perhaps working through the night in the primitive and gruelling conditions would have been enough to see her immediate return to the UK. But the temptation had been fleeting. It wouldn’t be in the best interests of the patients to have an exhausted and inexperienced doctor working on them. Still, he had to admit she had done well at the crash scene. Apart from that initial hesitation she had worked calmly and efficiently. He knew that more than one patient had reason to be glad she had been there. It didn’t help that something in those luminescent green eyes had sparked feelings that he thought had gone for ever. No, it was best all round if she could be made to see that Africa wasn’t for her.

CHAPTER TWO

THE sun streaming into her room woke Kirsty. Anxious that she’d overslept, she glanced at her watch and couldn’t believe it wasn’t quite six yet. She stretched, breathing in the unfamiliar but heady scents that drifted in from her open window. Last night, one of the kitchen staff had escorted her to her accommodation after serving her some mashed pumpkin and roast beef. The rest of the staff had all been busy with the aftermath of the accident, so it had been a solitary supper for Kirsty.

Although she had been a little disappointed not to meet and work alongside her new colleagues, part of her had been relieved to get the opportunity of a much-needed early night. She had barely managed to stay awake long enough to shower the blood, sweat and dust away, before collapsing into bed. She had expected to fall asleep the moment her head had hit the pillow, but instead had found herself replaying the events of the day and her introduction to the strangeness of this wild, untamed patch of Africa and its people, including the enigmatic Dr Greg du Toit. Although she couldn’t say her new boss had been unwelcoming, she’d sensed he wasn’t altogether happy to have her there. She had tossed and turned, wondering if she had made the right decision to come to work in this hospital deep in rural Africa. Would she cope? Everything seemed much more basic than she had imagined. But she’d had to get away. Put as much distance between herself and her memories as possible. She wanted—needed—to start afresh make a new life for herself. When at last she had fallen asleep, it had been to dream of Robbie. She had woken up to find tears drying on her cheeks.

But Kirsty was determined that today would be the beginning of her new life. Curious about her new home, she jumped out of bed. There was a set of scrubs on the rickety chair in the corner of the room. They hadn’t been there the night before. Greg must have asked someone to bring them over. She was surprised that he had remembered, with so much going on.

The accommodation certainly wasn’t lavish but, then, Kirsty hadn’t expected it to be. Nevertheless she appreciated the gleaming polished earthen floors smelling faintly of lavender, cool and smooth under her bare feet. And although the furniture was sparse, she knew that with a few touches she could make her new home more appealing.

The house was at least half a century old, with a hodgepodge of additions over time to what must have been the original structure—a circular room from which a tiny scullery, her bedroom and a spartan bathroom led off at various angles, each serving to create interesting nooks and crannies.

The circular room—or rondavel as it was traditionally known—was divided down the middle by a freestanding granite unit that separated the living-room area from the kitchen. On closer inspection Kirsty realised it must have been an autopsy slab from bygone times. However, its antiquated, well-scrubbed appearance amused rather than repulsed her.

While the kettle boiled, she searched fruitlessly for something to eat. In hindsight, she remembered being told that staff meals were served daily in the dining room. If she preferred to prepare meals for herself, she’d have to do her own grocery shopping. Hell, there wasn’t even tea or milk! Dispirited, she flicked the kettle off. Breakfast in the staff dining room it had to be!

She took a quick shower, pleased to find that while the furniture and fittings might be sparse, there was a plentiful supply of steaming hot water. However, she remembered that Africa often suffered severe water shortages and limited her shower to the minimum amount of time needed to soap her body and rinse the last of the dust from her long auburn hair.

She wasn’t expected on duty until the following day but she was eager to see how the victims of yesterday’s accident were faring so she dressed quickly in the scrubs, which were a surprisingly good fit. She wondered if Greg had selected them himself—if he had, he had an accurate idea of her size.

Looking around for a socket for her hairdryer, she was dismayed to find that although there were a few, none fitted her UK plug. Mildly put out, she towel dried it instead, before plaiting it into a thick braid. She would simply have to learn to adapt as best she could to her new environment. After all, she thought with some longing, she was unlikely to find all the conveniences of her home city several hours’ drive into the African bush. Nevertheless, she thought with exasperation, there were some things she couldn’t possibly be expected to do without, and a hairdryer was one of them!

Following the footpath that led from her cottage, she entered the rear of the hospital where most of the wards were situated on different sides of a long passageway. She stepped into the first room on her right through double swing doors and was greeted warmly by a smiling Sister Ngoba, the night sister whom she’d met the previous evening and who was now busy writing up reports before handing over to the day staff. As Kirsty’s eyes roamed the length of the ward, she was surprised to see a familiar head bent over the bed of a female patient whose leg was in traction. When he looked up she could see the stubble darkening his jaw and the fatigue shadowing his eyes.

‘Kirsty?’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘You don’t need to be on duty until tomorrow. Everyone needs a day to settle in.’

‘I know. I wanted to check up on how our patients from the accident yesterday were doing. And I’m longing to get started. I don’t need a day off. Anyway, you’re on duty,’ she challenged.

He smiled tiredly. ‘But I’m meant to be on duty.’

‘You haven’t been up all night, have you?’

‘Almost, but not quite,’ he said, wryly thinking that the hour’s sleep he’d managed to get hadn’t been nearly enough.

‘Thank you for your help yesterday, by the way, and a belated welcome to the team. You’ll meet everyone later.’

‘I look forward to that.’ She paused to smile hello at the patient Greg had been examining. It was the young woman whose tibia and fibula had been badly crushed by the overturned minibus. Lydia, her eyes cloudy with painkillers, managed a weak smile in return, before closing her eyes.

‘How’s our patient?’ Kirsty asked quietly.

‘I think we’ve managed to save her leg. Once I’m sure she’s stable, I’ll arrange to send her to one of the hospitals in the city. They have better equipment than we do, as well as access to physio. For cases like this we patch them up, stabilise them and then send them on.’ He smiled down at the girl and said something to her that Kirsty couldn’t understand.

‘You speak the language?’ Kirsty asked impressed.

‘One or two of them—there are around fifteen different languages or dialects in this country, but I know the ones that are spoken in this neck of the woods. I find it’s pretty useful for communicating with my patients.’ He stretched, working the kinks out of his muscles. ‘But obviously you’ll need a nurse or an assistant to help you translate when there are patients who don’t speak English.’ Kirsty made a mental note to try and master as much of the language as she could. She had learned a few words before coming out, mainly greetings, but intended to learn more.

‘I’m just telling Lydia that the morphine that we’ve given her is what’s making her sleepy. She’ll probably be out for the count for the rest of the day,’ Greg explained, and sure enough Lydia had closed her eyes and seemed to have already succumbed to the sedating effects of the drug. Kirsty and Greg moved away from the bed.

‘I also hoped for a tour of the rest of the hospital. I’m really keen to see it all.’

Greg wrapped his stethoscope around his neck. ‘I could show you later,’ he replied.

‘Please, don’t worry. I’m sure you’ve got enough to do. One of the nursing sisters can—or, if everyone’s busy, I can see myself around. I won’t get in anyone’s way—I promise. But first I need a cup of coffee! I haven’t had any yet and I’m a bit of a caffeine junkie.’

Greg hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘Damn, I’m sorry about that. I meant to organise some provisions for you yesterday but with everything going so crazy here, it completely slipped my mind.’ His sheepish grin was contrite. ‘I’m almost finished the ward rounds so if you can hold on, I’ll show you the dining room. Then unfortunately I’m due in Outpatients so I’ll have to leave you to your own devices.’

‘I’ll come with you to Outpatients, if that’s OK. I’d really like to get stuck in as soon as possible. A coffee and toast will do me until lunch,’ she said.

Greg looked at her appraisingly. Kirsty couldn’t help notice how the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. But even when relaxed there was a presence about the man, an animal-like energy that seemed to fill the room.

‘We could do with the help. Jamie and Sarah are in Theatre this morning and Jenny is anaesthetising for them, so quick rounds, followed by coffee and Outpatients it is.’ He went on, ‘This, as I’m sure you’ve gathered, is the female surgical ward.’ He moved to the next bed. ‘You recognise this young lady?’

It was the woman who had had the femoral bleed, Maria. A quick look at her chart told Kirsty that she was stable.

‘I take it if she’s not in Intensive Care, she’s going to be all right?’

‘We had her in surgery most of the night, but it looks hopeful. Once we’re sure she can tolerate the journey, we’ll send her by ambulance to one of the teaching hospitals in the city. They’ll be able to take it from there.’

‘And Lydia’s little boy? Where is he?’ asked Kirsty, suddenly remembering.

‘He’s in the paediatric ward for the time being. There was nowhere else to put him. He’s been driving the staff crazy with his loud wailing. He won’t be consoled. We’d let him see his mother if she looked a little less frightening. Can’t you hear him?’

And Kirsty did, faintly. She found herself moving in the direction of his cries.

‘Any relatives we can contact?’

‘No one’s come forward to claim him but it’s early still. When the mother surfaces properly, we’ll get more information.’

‘I think he should see her,’ she said firmly.

‘Would that be wise?’

‘He’s, what…about two years old? Old enough for some understanding. I think he needs to feel his mother’s still alive, even though she’s “sleeping”.’

‘It might make things worse. Surely it’s better to wait until she’s alert enough to reassure him herself?’ he suggested.

‘How could anything be worse for him than what it is now? He’s not crying just because he’s miserable and wants to make a loud noise. He’s crying for his mother, and he can’t understand why she’s not coming. In his mind she’s abandoned him.’

‘If you’re sure…’

‘I’m not sure. It depends on his ability to comprehend. But he seemed so well cared-for I’m willing to take a gamble… Besides, I do know a thing or two about children.’ Kirsty felt the familiar crushing pain as she said the words. She ignored Greg’s searching glance and turned towards the cries before he could say anything.

They entered the children’s ward together. The toddler was not the only one crying but he was certainly the loudest. Kirsty’s greeting of the staff on duty was cursory as she focused her attention on the unhappy child. Picking him up, she depended on the natural inherent curiosity of toddlers for him to be distracted long enough for her to talk to him. She was confident that, like most very young children, he understood a lot more than most adults would give him credit for. Recalling the desperate concern of the mother at the accident scene, this child knew love.

‘Shh,’ she said, soothing the distressed infant, dangling her stethoscope in front of him. It took a while but he quietened eventually as, momentarily distracted, he explored his new toy. Kirsty knew that it wouldn’t be long before his cries resumed.

She caught sight of one of his fingers, which had a sticky plaster on it, a superficial pre-crash wound she’d noticed yesterday.

‘Ow,’ she said, lifting his hand and kissing the well-wrapped injury. The little boy seemed hypnotised by her attention. ‘What’s “Mother sleeping”?’ she asked the staff while the boy gazed, astonished, at his finger, as if seeing it for the first time in a new light. ‘Tell him his mummy has a big “ow” and is sleeping.’ The nurse spoke to the child and he listened, taking in what was being said to him.

Armed with a few new words of the language, Kirsty followed Greg back to the surgical ward.

‘Mummy’s sleeping—bomma robetsego,’ she tried in his language as the toddler stared down at his mother. His bottom lip quivered and Kirsty knew tears were not far behind. In an age-long gesture, he leaned out of Kirsty’s arms, his arms stretched pleadingly towards his unconscious mother.

‘Mummy’s sleeping. Shh,’ Kirsty repeated softly, allowing him to touch the still figure. ‘Let her sleep.’

The little boy crumpled in her arms. This time, though, his tears were quieter as she took him away and returned him to the children’s ward.

‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Greg said, walking alongside her.

‘It doesn’t always work,’ Kirsty admitted, ‘but I thought it worth a try. He’s exhausted so hopefully he’ll sleep now, and when he wakes up someone should take him back to see his mother. With a bit of luck she’ll wake soon and comfort him herself.’

‘And if she doesn’t?’

‘Then he’ll know why,’ she replied simply. ‘If not now, then later when it matters. Children are more able to cope with a parent who can’t help or comfort them. It’s those who think their parents have abandoned them who suffer most.’

Greg flinched and he looked off into the distance, before striding out of the ward, leaving Kirsty to scurry along in his wake. It seemed she had touched a nerve. She was dismayed and not a little curious. What on earth had she said that had affected him like that?

In the male surgical ward, Dr Jenny Carter was taking a blood sample from a patient. She looked up as she heard the ward doors swing open.

Kirsty found her instantly likeable. Plump, with a thick bush of greying hair tied back at the nape of her neck with what looked like a shoelace, she had a gregarious, warm manner.

‘Ah, our new recruit! Come to check we’re taking good care of your patients from last night?’ But there wasn’t an ounce of malice in the question. ‘Here’s Mr Mhlongo. Says we can call him Eddy! And he must be doing fine because he’s already been teasing the nurses. Perhaps we should plaster the other arm, what do you think?’ A nursing sister cheerfully translated the doctor’s words to Eddy.

‘Dumela,’ Kirsty greeted the chuckling man, covered in plaster on one side of his chest all the way down to his fingers with his neck stabilised in a brace. He might not have realised it yet but he owed his life to the seat belt that had prevented him from meeting a similar fate to the driver when the front of the minibus had slammed into the ground. She felt his pulse and although she’d been concerned he might have sustained a serious concussion, his bright eyes told her otherwise. A broken shoulder and a severe case of whiplash seemed to be the worst of his problems. Not so the patient in the bed closest to the nurses’ station or the one in Intensive Care, but the two other patients in the ward she’d attended to yesterday were doing fine.

Kirsty was surprised at the number of patients in the hospital cared for by a very small complement of staff. In fact, some wards were so crowded that some patients were sleeping on mattresses on the floor or, as the case in the children’s ward, doubled up in cots.

‘What about the risk of cross-infection?’ she asked Greg.

‘We are as careful as we can be. Most of those sharing are siblings with the same condition.’

‘Surely not those with HIV or AIDS?’

‘Actually, contrary to popular belief, it is these patients who need to be protected from infection and not the other way around. After all, it is their immune systems that are compromised, rendering them vulnerable to every infection and germ around,’ Greg told Kirsty. He turned to the nursing sister who was accompanying them. ‘Isn’t that right, Sister?’

The nursing sister shrugged her shoulders. ‘Too many with the disease. We try to take special care but…’ The shake of her head told much without words. It had been a fact of life for so long that it was difficult, if not impossible, not to become desensitised.

‘Come on, let’s get you fed and then, if you’re still up for it, you can come and help me in Outpatients. Although it’s Sunday, we’ll have a full clinic. Days of the week have no meaning out here. Most of them will have walked for days just to get here and I don’t like to keep them waiting any longer than necessary. I’ve eaten…’ he glanced at his watch ‘…but I’ve time for a quick cup of coffee, so I’ll show you where the staff dining room is then leave you to it. The other staff will probably be there, except for the Campbells who tend to eat breakfast in their own house.’

When they entered the dining room she was pleased to find Jenny there if no one else.

‘Jenny will show you to Outpatients when you’re ready. Take your time,’ Greg said, and after a quick gulp of coffee left the two women to it.

‘Does he ever slow down?’ Kirsty asked, looking at Greg’s retreating back.

‘Not really,’ Jenny acknowledged. ‘The man is a human dynamo. I can’t remember the last time he took a day off. The rest of us are more human: he insists we take a couple of days at least every third week.’ She eyed Kirsty’s thin frame thoughtfully. ‘Don’t worry, no one will expect you to work these hours, dear.’

‘I’ll do my share,’ Kirsty said. ‘I’m stronger than I look.’ She stirred the lumpy porridge thoughtfully. ‘Maybe Greg works too hard,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘Sometimes he seems a little…well, abrupt. Or is it just me? Have I done something wrong?’

‘Oh, don’t mind Greg. His bark is worse than his bite. He’s a real softy really. As you’ll find out.’

‘Softy’ was the last word Kirsty would have used to describe Greg. ‘What happened to him?’ she asked, curious to know more about this man she was to work with over the coming months.

‘You mean his face? The scars? I hardly notice them any more.’ Jenny hesitated for a moment before seeming to make up her mind. ‘Oh, well, you’ll find out sooner rather than later anyway. It’s impossible to keep secrets in a community of this size. He got them trying to rescue his wife and child from their burning house. They were on their own, just before Christmas—five years last Christmas, in fact. He had been called to the hospital—some emergency I expect. He arrived home to find his house in flames and the fire brigade battling to get it under control. His wife and daughter were still inside. Greg tried to get to them even though the firemen had already failed. They couldn’t hold him back. He went in and brought them out. But it was too late. They had both died from smoke inhalation. Apparently the fire started from the Christmas-tree lights. He was devastated. They were his whole world. I don’t think he has ever come to terms with the loss—I’m not sure that one does.’

Kirsty was stricken. Memories of her own tragedy came flooding back. Although fifteen years had passed, there wasn’t a day when she didn’t think of her mother or Pamela.

Jenny shook her head sorrowfully, unaware of Kirsty’s reaction. ‘I think Greg blames himself, God knows why. There wasn’t anything anybody could have done. The poor man was in hospital himself for weeks. Once he was discharged he left Cape Town. I expect he couldn’t bear to stay anywhere near the place where they had been so happy. He came here and has been here ever since. He works so hard. It’s as if he is trying to exorcise his demons through sheer hard work. He never talks about it or them, and if I were you, I wouldn’t ever raise the topic. I tried once and got my head bitten off.’

‘How awful.’ Kirsty blinked away the tears that threatened to surface. No wonder he was brusque. Now she knew, she would have to be more sympathetic.

‘He still wears his wedding ring,’ she said.

‘You noticed, then?’ Jenny cast a mischievous look at Kirsty. ‘I wouldn’t get any ideas in that direction. There has been many a young doctor and nurse who has tried to offer Greg comfort, but while he doesn’t seem adverse to the odd casual fling, I doubt somehow that he’ll ever let anyone really get under the barrier of ice he seems to have wrapped around his heart.’

Kirsty felt her cheeks flame at the implication. ‘I can assure you,’ she said stiffly, ‘a relationship with anyone is the last thing on my mind.’

Subconsciously she fingered her now bare ring finger. ‘I’ve had enough of men to last me a lifetime.’ She ignored Jenny’s curious look. ‘I’m here to work and to learn. Nothing more.’ She drained her coffee. ‘Sorry.’ Kirsty grimaced, suddenly aghast at the turn the conversation had taken. The kindly doctor in front of her must think her rude. ‘I’m not usually so prickly, it’s just…new place, new people, new challenges. It’ll take me a day or two to settle in, I guess.’

By the time Jenny left Kirsty outside the outpatient clinic, with a hasty apology that she had another Theatre list due to start, there were several patients sitting outside, waiting their turn to be seen. Most of the women still wore traditional dress and despite the intense heat had their children strapped onto their backs with thick blankets. For the most part the children seemed quiet—subdued even. One little boy squatted in the dust, lazily poking at the ground with a stick. When he looked up Kirsty could see that one of his eyes was sticky with what looked like a chronic infection. She tilted his chin—he needed something for his eyes, the sooner the better. She glanced around and spotted a nurse moving between the patients, taking histories and writing notes. Kirsty guessed she was probably assessing who needed to be seen first. Just before Kirsty could grab her attention she noticed a young woman clutching a bundle to her breast. There was something in the woman’s posture—an air of despair—that made Kirsty catch her breath. She moved closer, and gently lowered the blanket to reveal a small, painfully thin child who was making no effort to take the proffered breast of the young mother. The child’s face was so thin it seemed almost skeletal, the skin clinging to the fragile bones of the skull. Flies settled and buzzed around the tiny mouth and closed eyes. For a heart-stopping moment Kirsty thought the child was already dead. She felt for a pulse and was rewarded with a faint flutter beneath her fingertips. The child was still alive, but surely not for long. With one swift movement she lifted the infant up, its tiny frame feeling no heavier than a feather, and rushed into the department. This child couldn’t wait. It needed fluids in the form of a drip straight away or he or she would die.

Ignoring the wails of the young mother, she searched frantically for Greg. She found him crouching in front of an old woman, examining a suppurating sore on her foot.

Greg took one look at Kirsty’s anguished expression and stood up.

‘What is it?’ he asked, bending forward to look at her small bundle. ‘Not another case of marasmus—starvation,’ he said despairingly. ‘OK, bring her into the treatment room and let’s see what we can do. If there is anything we can do.’

Within moments the small child, a girl, was lying on the couch, her mother sitting close by, her eyes flitting from Kirsty to Greg. One of the nurses had joined them and was talking to the mother in rapid Sotho.

‘The child stopped taking the breast two days ago. She’s been sick for over a week. A traditional healer gave her mother some herbs to give her, but when they didn’t help and she stopped taking the breast, the mother decided to bring her to us. It’s taken two days for her to get here.’

While the nurse repeated the history, Greg and Kirsty had been searching for a vein in which to insert a drip. Kirsty knew that they had to get the small child rehydrated as soon as possible.

‘I can’t find any in her arms. They all seem to have collapsed,’ Kirsty told Greg, fear catching her voice. They had no time. The child could die if they didn’t treat her right away.

Greg looked up at her. ‘Slow down. We’ll find one. Look here just above the foot. We’ll need to do a cut down. It’s not ideal, but it’s all we have. Have you done one before?’

‘I have, but I’d rather watch you first, if that’s OK,’ Kirsty said. This child was so small, so desperately ill. What if she was too slow?

‘You’ll have to do it, I’m afraid. You may have noticed my right hand only has restricted movement. It’s fine except for the most delicate stuff.’ Kirsty could only guess what it cost Greg to admit his limitations. At the same time she admired him for it. She had once seen a doctor attempt to perform procedures above his capabilities and the results had almost been disastrous.

Greg noticed Kirsty’s hesitation. ‘You’ll be fine. I’ll talk you through it.’

Somehow his belief in her gave her confidence and with very little assistance from Greg she performed the procedure perfectly and without any wasted time.

‘Excellent job.’ Greg’s praise was fulsome and genuine and Kirsty felt elated. She thought that she might grow to like her job here.

‘OK, let’s get her started on the usual regime.’ He directed a few rapid words towards the mother.

‘She’s three years old,’ he translated for Kirsty.

Once again Kirsty was horrified. Three! It wasn’t possible. The child looked no older than nine months, a year at the most. She was so tiny.

‘Obviously we can’t use her age to work out how much we need to give her. By my guess she weighs just over eight kilograms. Could you pop her on the scales?’ he asked the nurse.

The nurse scooped the child up and laid her gently on the scales.

‘Just right—eight kilos,’ she told Greg.

‘Any thoughts on the dosage we should be administering?’ Greg asked Kirsty.

Kirsty thought frantically. She had completed six months in paediatrics as part of her houseman jobs. But the children there had been so much bigger, stronger than this child in front of her. She had never seen anyone in such an advanced stage of starvation before. How could she have? But she remembered a child, physically handicapped, who had been brought in following a severe episode of diarrhoea. The child’s condition had been similar to if not quite as drastic as that of this child in front of her.

She was about to hazard a guess, but Greg hadn’t waited for her response. He adjusted the drip and straightened up. She could sense the fatigue and something else—could it be anger?—behind his professional exterior.

‘We’ve done everything we can for the time being. It’s in the lap of the gods now.’ He tossed his gloves into the bin. ‘The main problem is caused by formula. The government spends substantial sums of money promoting breast-feeding, but the problem is with the women who are HIV positive. The danger of them transmitting the disease to their infants through breast milk is just too large, so they are encouraged to give their babies formula. Unfortunately formula is too expensive for most of them, so they start diluting it to make it go further. Then the children simply don’t get enough calories or nutrition. And as if that isn’t bad enough, a large number of the outlying villages still don’t have access to clean water. So the women mix the powder with water from the river. And what you see before you is the result.’

‘Can’t we do anything about it?’ Kirsty asked. ‘Surely it’s just a matter of education?’

Greg smiled, but there was no humour in his eyes. ‘Education and clean water. That’s what is needed. In the meantime…’ He let the words hang in the air for a moment. ‘In the meantime we do the best we can. Come on, Kirsty, as you’re about to see, there is plenty more for us to do.’

‘But doing the best we can isn’t enough. Is it? Not if children are still dying?’ Surely he wasn’t going to tell her there was nothing they could do to prevent this? He didn’t strike Kirsty as a man who let anything stop him from doing what was right.

‘We’ll talk about it later,’ Greg said quietly but firmly. ‘Right now we have work to do. You take the consulting room next door. I’m just across the hall. If you need me, give me a shout, but try the nurses first. I think you’ll find that there is precious little they can’t help you with.’ And without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and left the room.

CHAPTER THREE

THE rest of the morning passed quickly. Kirsty saw many children with the swollen bellies and stick-like limbs of kwashiorkor, a condition the nurses told her was caused by poor nutrition and lack of vitamins. The nursing staff were fantastic. They worked unstintingly throughout the day, pausing to answer Kirsty’s questions with unfailing good humour and patience. Kirsty felt humbled to be part of their team and full of admiration for their level of expertise. The patients too were remarkably stoic and, despite long waits in the overcrowded department, were universally grateful for everything Kirsty did, however small. Occasionally, to her surprise, she could hear laughter filtering through the walls of the consulting room.

Eventually the clinic quietened down, until all that was left was dressings and vaccinations that the nursing staff on the back shift would finish off.

As Kirsty leaned back in her chair, a wave of exhaustion washed over her. But it felt good. She closed her eyes.

‘Lunch?’ Greg popped his head around the door and as if in answer Kirsty’s stomach growled. Now that he mentioned it, she was starving. The cup of coffee and the watery porridge she had eaten at breakfast-time had made her appreciate why the others ate at home. As soon as she had the opportunity she was going to stock up on provisions, but in the meantime…

‘Lead me to it,’ she said, jumping out of her chair. I hope he doesn’t think I’ve spent the morning snoozing, she thought.

‘Come on, then. I gather you did pretty well this morning. The nurse told me you worked throughout without a break. Well done.’

Kirsty felt herself glow with pleasure. Maybe he wasn’t going to be so difficult to work for after all.

‘I am going out to one of the villages tomorrow to do a clinic, if you’d like to come with me,’ Greg said as they made their way to the staff dining room. Kirsty almost had to run to keep up with his long strides. ‘You’ve seen the bad, now I’d like you to see the good.’

‘I’d love to,’ Kirsty said, ‘but I’d like to check up on the child we saw this morning before lunch, if that’s OK. I don’t mind missing lunch if we’re pushed for time.’

Greg’s eyes swept over her figure. He shook his head. ‘You look as if you could do with a good feeding up yourself, so missing lunch isn’t a good idea. You’ve been working hard and a sick or weakened doctor is no good to anyone. Of course we can take the time to pop into Paediatrics before we eat, but if you are going to survive out here, you’ll need to become less emotionally involved. I find too much emotion can cloud a doctor’s judgement.’

So much for thinking he was going to be easy to work for! It hadn’t taken long for his habitual curtness to resurface. And who was he to tell her when she had to eat? And as for telling her not to become too involved, she had heard those words before. She thought it would be different out here. She thought, if anything, doctors came here to work because they wanted to be involved. But clearly not Dr Greg du Toit. The man had no feelings. He was simply a working machine.

‘I think I’m old enough to look after myself,’ Kirsty said frostily. ‘I don’t mind you commenting on my work, but what I eat and what I feel is up to me, don’t you think?’

Her words stopped Greg in his tracks. He turned to look at Kirsty with glittering blue eyes. Suddenly he smiled.

‘OK, OK.’ He put his hands up in mock surrender. ‘You win. However, no missing meals—is that understood?’

‘Yeah, yeah, and no late nights or alcohol or strange men in my room after midnight. Gotcha.’

Greg’s smile grew broader. ‘God, I do sound like a Victorian father, don’t I? Kathleen was always telling me to lighten up.’ His smile disappeared and Kirsty could see the pain in his eyes. For a moment she was tempted to reach out to offer him comfort. She touched his arm gently, feeling the muscles tense beneath her fingertips.

‘Was Kathleen your wife?’ she asked softly.

He drew back from her touch as if she’d caused him physical pain.

‘Ah, I see people have been talking,’ he said, his lips set in a grim line.

‘Jenny told me what happened. I’m so sorry, Greg. I don’t know how anyone can bear such a loss.’

‘Well, let’s hope you never have to find out,’ he said, rubbing his hand across his scars. ‘Some things are just better not thought about.’

That’s where you are wrong, thought Kirsty, feeling the familiar flicker of pain.

‘You must miss them,’ Kirsty ventured. Inexplicably she felt the need to get closer to this man.

‘As you told me just a few minutes ago, everyone has a right to their privacy. I’ve agreed to respect yours and I’d be grateful if you would respect mine.’ Despite his words, his tone was mild. But Kirsty could see by the set of his jaw that he was holding himself in check.

Nevertheless, Kirsty felt as if she’d been slapped.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

Greg rubbed his scar. ‘No, forgive me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to have a go at you. I’ve probably been here too long and have forgotten the social niceties. Let’s just forget it.’

He paused next to a path that led away from the hospital towards the perimeter of the compound. ‘If you follow that path for a few minutes, you’ll come to a large concrete reservoir. We use it for swimming. Jamie makes it his business to keep it clean. We often congregate there after work or at weekends.’ He carried on walking. ‘There are four doctors here, as you know—you make the fifth. We take turns at being on call, and we all operate but Sarah is nominally in charge of obstetrics, Jamie paediatrics, Jenny anaesthetises and has responsibility for the medical wards. The surgical wards are mine. There’s a rota for outpatients as that involves a bit of everything.’

‘What will I be doing?’ Kirsty asked

‘You’ll be learning.’ He looked at her intently. ‘At this point you have no idea how quickly you’ll be learning. A couple of weeks and you’ll be expected to manage on your own, although, of course, we will always be available for advice. I’m afraid, Dr Boucher, we can’t carry people here. It’s a case of see one, do one, teach one.’

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