if she’s turned up at Sandy Ridge… Hell, Blake, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. If you have Nell McKenzie wanting to work with you, then you hang onto her with everything you have. She’s worth her weight in gold.’
A real little work horse. Blake came back out to Reception as Nell waved goodbye to Ethel and gazed at her incredulously. Anything less like a work horse he had yet to meet.
But she was here. She was another doctor and he really was overworked.
Who was Ernest?
It couldn’t matter.
‘All right,’ he managed. ‘All right.’
‘All right what?’
‘All right, you can stay.’
Her smile flashed back into her eyes. ‘Gee, that’s nice of you—and so gracious.’
He glowered. She had him unnerved. ‘I can cope on my own.’
‘I’m sure you can.’ she told him. ‘But you’ll crack eventually. You can’t go on working at this pace for ever.’
‘I have for two years.’
‘And it’s getting to you.’
‘It’s not getting to me.’
‘OK, it’s not getting to you,’ she agreed blithely, and grinned again. ‘You’re coping magnificently. All’s well with the world and I’m doomed to spend four weeks being a pest. But that’s my fate, Dr Sutherland. I know my place in life. Pest extraordinaire. So can we get on with it?’
He was having trouble keeping up with her. ‘What—now?’
‘Take me to where I’m going to live,’ she told him, smiling sweetly. ‘Take me to the doctors’ quarters and then we’ll get on with me being your Christmas present.’
The doctors’ quarters were not to Nell McKenzie’s liking. She took one step through the door and stopped short.
‘How long did you say you’ve been living here?’ she asked in stunned amazement, and Blake gazed around defensively.
‘Two years. It’s not so bad.’
‘It’s awful.’
‘Gee, thanks. If I go into your home, would you be happy if I said it was awful?’
‘I’d hope someone would point it out if it was this bad.’
‘It’s not this bad.’
‘It’s worse.’ She stared around the starkly furnished apartment in distaste.
OK, it wasn’t very good, Blake admitted. The last doctor at Sandy Ridge—Chris Maitland—had lived offsite. When Blake had taken over from Chris two years ago, the doctors’ quarters had contained a stark laminex table with four vinyl chairs, a vinyl couch and a plain bedstead in each room. Oh, and one black and white television. There had been nothing more, and Blake had never had the time or the inclination to turn the place into something else.
‘You can’t live here all the time,’ Nell breathed, and Blake found himself getting more and more annoyed.
‘Of course I do. Where else would I go?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake…’ She stalked over and hauled open the bedroom doors one after the other. The only difference between his bedroom and the others was that Blake’s bed was made up and there was a pile of medical journals on the floor. ‘Very cosy,’ she retorted. She swivelled back to face him. ‘Where’s your Christmas tree?’
‘Why would I need a Christmas tree?’
Why indeed? They gazed at each other, eyes locked, and her gaze was accusatory. Like he’d personally shot Santa Claus!
This time he was saved by his beeper. He looked at the little screen and he sighed. He was needed. It was more work—of course—but his sigh was a sigh of relief.
‘I need to go.’
‘Of course you need to go,’ Nell said cordially. ‘I would too if I stayed in this dump.’
‘You asked to live here.’
‘Nobody lives here. People stay here. There’s a difference. You don’t live on torn green vinyl dining chairs and ugly grey linoleum. You exist.’
‘I’m leaving,’ he told her. ‘I have a patient in hospital who has heart problems, and then I have house calls to make. Make yourself comfortable.’
‘Comfortable? Humph! Ernest will hate this place.’
Who the hell was Ernest? He didn’t have time to find out. ‘Well, ring Jonas and Em and complain about your working conditions,’ he said with asperity. ‘I’m sure the three of you can work it out. You’re all so good at organising.’
‘We are at that.’
He cast her a last, long, dubious look. There were schemes going on behind those sea-green eyes. He could feel their vibes from where he was.
Who was Ernest?
‘Don’t do anything. Just unpack.’
‘And I’ll make myself comfortable,’ she said. ‘It’s what all guests do.’
‘Don’t!’
‘Go, Dr Sutherland,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Go and doctor to those who need doctoring. Leave me to my own devices.’
He didn’t have a choice. He left.
By the time Blake reached Casualty, Harriet Walsingham’s heart had decided to behave.
‘Though it gave me quite a scare, Doctor,’ she said, sitting up and crossing her ankles primly on the ambulance trolley. ‘I came over all funny, I did.’
‘Then you can lie straight down again in case you come over all funny again,’ he told her, pressing her gently back on the pillows and moving his stethoscope into position. ‘What exactly happened?’
‘She was out cold on the kitchen floor,’ one of the ambulance officers told him, and Blake looked a question at the younger of the two men. If something was grey, Henry painted it black.
‘Bob?’
‘She wasn’t unconscious,’ Bob told him truthfully. ‘She was just gasping like a fish out of water and she’d managed to grab the phone and call us.’
‘It’s got to be angina pectoris,’ Henry told him triumphantly. ‘Like I told you when we called. That’s what it’ll be. Won’t it, Doc?
‘Possibly.’ Not for the first time Blake thought longingly of big cities and fully trained paramedics. Henry was the local postman and Bob ran the menswear store. For them, a call for the ambulance
