and even then the Ibrahims and the Foxworths owned their own helicopters and could fly someone to Melbourne and their own doctor in twenty minutes. But Charlie’s grandmother now lived permanently at Bide-a-While and, given her age, required regular medical attention.
Anna Ainsworth wasn’t the sort of woman who whipped out photos of her family during a consultation and Lauren had never deviated from the professional doctor-patient relationship and asked about Charlie. Up until seeing the red stethoscope the other day, she hadn’t thought about Charlie in a long time and, besides, asking about him would likely only generate questions from Anna about how she knew her grandson. Lauren had kept their relationship a secret this long and there was no reason to admit to it now.
Lauren had never visited Anna at home before but when Lauren matched up the fact the woman hadn’t rung to cancel today’s appointment with Sue’s concerns about her leg, she’d decided a home visit was required. The car crested the hill and there in front of her were the intricate iron gates at the entrance to the Bide-a-While acre. The gates were open and, going by the growth of weeds at the base of the pillars, it would appear this was their normal state these days. ‘I have to go, Mum. Talk soon.’
Lauren navigated the car along the agapanthus-lined gravel driveway, the large and heavy white and purple flowers waving in the breeze, and she gave a delighted gasp when the beautiful and immaculately white-painted Victorian house came into view. She parked adjacent to the glorious wraparound veranda that cast long shadows of welcome shade across the treated red gum boards, and the late afternoon sun turned the corrugated-iron roof into a dazzling silver light show.
She automatically imagined women from a hundred years ago wearing white muslin dresses and men in starched collared shirts sitting in the cane chairs, sipping G&Ts after playing tennis on the grass court. Today the veranda was empty except for an aging beagle, who waddled off his bed and ambled to the top of the five steps. He gave her a half-hearted bark as she hoisted her medical bag out of the boot.
‘It’s too hot for that sort of nonsense, buddy,’ she said, leaning down to rub his ears before she pressed the brass door bell. While she waited for the sound of footsteps, she admired the beautiful red and blue painted glass panels around the door.
‘Dr Fuller? Lauren. Goodness, this is a surprise.’ Anna Ainsworth, still regal at eighty-one, peered at her through her glasses. ‘Do come in, dear.’
‘Thank you.’ Lauren crossed the threshold and found herself standing in a wide hall with deep skirting boards. ‘I was concerned when you didn’t come to your appointment, especially when Mum...’ She smiled and corrected herself. ‘The district nurse was worried about you.’
The elderly woman’s hand fluttered to the base of her throat. ‘I’m so sorry to have worried you. It’s just with everything that’s happened today, the appointment completely slipped my mind.’
Lauren followed Anna into a spacious living room complete with an open fireplace and a mantelpiece filled with silver framed family photos. ‘Is this the best place to examine you?’
‘Why not?’ Anna’s blue eyes, pale with age, sparkled with mischief. ‘It’s a room with a view that’s far more interesting than my leg.’
Lauren laughed and flicked open her bag. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I get excited when I see healthy skin where an ulcer is healing. I’ll start by testing your blood sugar. How’s it been?’
Anna grimaced. ‘Up and down, like my blood pressure. I had the sniffles last week and at my age it seems to put everything out of whack. I find it utterly frustrating,’ she said imperiously, as if the virus was very rude indeed to be causing her problems.
The glucometer beeped. ‘Eleven point two. That’s high.’
‘Oh, that’s just because of the tiny glass of champagne I drank.’
‘Champagne?’ Lauren tried not to sigh and unwrapped the blood-pressure cuff.
Anna leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘There are special occasions in life when celebrations are more far important than a spike in blood sugar.’
‘Like what?’ Lauren asked as she pumped up the sphygmomanometer, deciding it was best to find out exactly what the circumstances were before reading the Riot Act.
‘Like my grandson arriving unexpectedly.’
In her stunned surprise, Lauren only just caught the diastolic blood pressure reading as her heart did an odd skip in her chest. She immediately told herself not be ridiculous. Anna Ainsworth probably had many grandsons and even if this one was Charlie, he probably now came with a wife and two point five kids.
‘I haven’t seen him in over two years,’ Anna continued, ‘so I’m sure you’ll agree that’s very worthy of a few sips of champagne.’
‘Lauren agrees, but Dr Fuller is a little torn,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘Now, let’s look at this leg.’ She slid a bluey under Anna’s calf to protect the couch’s beautiful Australian wildflower print, before slipping on some gloves and carefully removing the dressing. The skin around the small ulcer was angry and two tiny black dots worried her. She carefully debrided them and reapplied the occlusive dressing. ‘That’s to stay in place for a week, Mrs Ainsworth, and I need you to promise me two things.’
‘Oh, dear,’ the woman said, her eyes twinkling again. ‘I’m not very good at keeping promises if they’re dull and boring.’
‘Oh, these are totally exciting, I promise,’ Lauren said. ‘The first is, when you’re sitting down, put your leg up every time. The second is, call me if your blood sugar is higher than eight.’
‘Lauren, dear, I think we have definition disparity about what constitutes exciting.’
‘Not really. If you don’t do those two things, you risk requiring a skin graft and spending a couple of weeks in hospital...’ While she’d been talking, she’d gathered up the dressing waste, rolled it up in the bluey and shoved the contents into a bag. Now she tied it with a flourish. ‘Now, that would be boring.’
‘You doctors,’ Anna grumbled good-naturedly. ‘You do like to win. And I should know, I’m surrounded by them.’
Lauren was about to give in to overwhelming temptation and ask how many Ainsworths were doctors when a tall, gaunt man with a mop of sandy hair and a slightly darker beard appeared in the doorway. Her stomach knotted half in disappointment and half in relief—this grandson wasn’t Charlie.
His entire demeanour—from the tilt of his head, past the slight sag of broad shoulders and all the way down to his wide, bare feet—emanated ingrained and longstanding fatigue. His blue eyes—so like Anna’s and yet disturbingly less vibrant—were glassy and bloodshot. Lauren couldn’t tell if he’d just woken up, was depressed, or if he’d consumed the bulk of the champagne and was, in fact, very drunk.
‘Gran, where do you keep the—? Oh, sorry. I didn’t realise you had a visitor.’
Lauren tensed as the rumbling voice with a raspy edge raised her skin in goosebumps. Stop letting your imagination run wild. You know it’s not Charlie. You’d recognise him instantly if it was. Yet she’d swear there was something about his deep voice that held the vestiges of velvet that had stroked her all those years ago.
He was staring intently at her now—probably because she was staring just as intensely
