to think of it, there have been a couple of times when I’ve run up against someone who didn’t share my take on things. Like my neighbour, who kept spraying the other neighbour’s cat with a hose every time it came into his garden. That’s just plain cruel and I didn’t refrain from telling him so. I got myself hosed for my trouble, but at least I felt good about standing up for Ginger.
And then there was the guy who’d been ripping off another elderly neighbour a few doors down. Elsie Montgomery employed him to do some gardening and odd jobs but it wasn’t long before he was doing her shopping and taking her to the doctor or on other outings. At first I thought he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart, but then I found out from Elsie—reluctantly, because she was embarrassed—he had been taking money out of her bank account after he’d got her to tell him her PIN.
I wanted Elsie to press charges against him for elder abuse but she thought he’d been punished enough by me shouting at him in the street in front of all the neighbours. That and the naming-and-shaming leaflet drop. That was a stroke of genius on my part. I got a team of local kids to help me distribute them. It will be a long time before he gets to cut any lawns in our suburb, possibly the whole country.
I was walking past the staff change rooms when Gracie appeared. ‘How did it go? What did he say to you?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘He has issues with my project.’
‘What sort of issues?’
I gave her a disgruntled look. I wasn’t going to spell it out for her. Word would spread fast enough. ‘The rooms I’ve been allocated, for one thing. He thinks we can’t afford the space.’
Gracie frowned. ‘But you’re doing amazing things with the patients and families. Everyone says so. Look at what you did for the Matheson family. You brought such comfort to them when they lost their son before Christmas.’
I pictured the Matheson family collected around Daniel’s twenty-one-year-old body as he breathed his last breaths after a long and difficult battle against sarcoma. I spent hours with them, preparing them and Daniel for the end. I encouraged them to be open with Daniel about their feelings, not to be ashamed of the anger they were feeling about his life being cut short, but to accept that as a part of the journey through grief. I taught Daniel’s father, who was uncomfortable showing emotion or affection, to gently massage his son to help him relax. When Daniel finally passed it was so peaceful in the room you could hear the birds twittering outside.
I let out a breath as we walked along the corridor back to the unit. ‘I can’t stop now. I’m only just beginning to see results. I’ve had three nurses tell me how much they got out of the meditation exercise I gave before I went on leave. When nurses get stressed, patients get stressed. It’s not rocket science. It’s common sense.’
‘But surely Dr Bishop can’t block your project now,’ Gracie said.
I held my hands out for the antiseptic gel from the dispenser on the wall, my mouth set in an indomitable line. ‘I’d like to see him try.’
I got busy doing a PICC line for a chemotherapy patient and then I had to help one of the registrars with setting up a patient’s ventilator. I was due for Theatre for an afternoon list with one of the neurosurgeons, Stuart McTaggart. Not my favourite person at St Iggy’s, but while he had an abrasive personality there was certainly nothing wrong with his surgical skills. Patients came from all over the country to see him. He had a world-class reputation for neurosurgery and was considered to be one of the best neurosurgeons of his generation.
I went to the doctors’ room to grab a quick bite of lunch. It was a medium-sized room big enough for a six-person dining table and chairs, a couple of mismatched armchairs, a coffee table, a sink and a small fridge. The daily newspapers were spread out on the table, where a bowl of fruit acted as a paperweight.
Personally, I thought the place could do with a facelift, maybe a bit of feng shui wouldn’t go astray, but I was fairly new on staff, considering some people had been here for their entire careers, so I picked my battles.
I reached for an apple out of the bowl as the door opened. I looked up to see Matt Bishop enter the staffroom. His expression showed no surprise or discomfit at seeing me there. In fact, I thought I caught a glimmer of a smile lurking in his eyes. No doubt he was still enjoying the joke he’d made of my project. I hadn’t heard anyone say anything about it so far but I knew it wouldn’t be long before they did. He wouldn’t be able to keep such a gem of hilarity to himself.
I felt my anger go up another notch. Why did I attract this sort of stuff? Why couldn’t I go about my life without people making fun of me? Now, you might ask why would a girl wear bright, fun clothes and twist her hair into wacky hairstyles if she was afraid of people laughing at her? Duh! If they’re laughing at my clothes and my hair I don’t have to feel they’re laughing at me. There’s a difference and to me it’s a big one.
I bit into the apple with a loud crunch. I was down a round and I had some serious catching up to do. I chewed the mouthful and then took another. And another. It wasn’t the nicest apple, to tell you the truth. But I was committed now so I had to finish it. I can be stubborn at times—most of the time, to be honest. I hate giving in. I hate being defeated by something or someone. I’d spent a lot of my childhood being bullied so I guess that’s why. It’s not just about losing face. I hate failure. It goes against my nature. I’m positive in my outlook. I go into things expecting to achieve my mission. I don’t let the naysayers get to me … or I try not to.
‘So where did you go on honeymoon?’ Matt Bishop asked, just as I’d taken another mouthful.
I swear to God I almost choked on that piece of apple. I thought he’d have to give me the Heimlich manoeuvre—not that we do that any more, but still. I coughed and spluttered, my eyes streaming, my cheeks as red as the skin of the piece of apple I was trying to shift from my airway.
He stepped towards me. ‘Are you okay?’
I signalled with one of my hands that I was fine. He waited patiently with his steady gaze trained on mine. Of course I couldn’t pretend I was choking forever, and since—technically speaking—I had been on honeymoon/holiday I decided to stay as close to the truth as possible once I got my airway clear. ‘Skiing … Italy.’
‘Where in Italy?’
‘Livigno.’
He acknowledged that with a slight nod as he reached for a coffee cup. ‘Good choice.’
I put the rest of my apple in the bin. It wasn’t my choice. I’m a hopeless skier. I’d only agreed to it because it was what Andy wanted. And rather than waste the money—because he hadn’t paid the travel insurance as I’d asked him to—I’d doggedly stuck with the plan. I must admit I was proud of myself in that I progressed off the nursery slopes, but not very far. ‘You ski?’ I asked.
‘Occasionally.’
There was a silence broken only by the sound of coffee being poured into his cup. I waited to see if he put milk or sugar or sweetener in it. You’ve guessed it. There’s a lot you can tell about someone from how they take their coffee. He was a straight-up man. No added extras. And he drank it smoking hot. I watched as he took his first mouthful without even wincing at the steamy heat.
‘What does your husband do?’
The question caught me off guard. I was too busy watching the way his mouth had shaped around the rim of his cup.
