The Reunion Of A Lifetime. Fiona Lowe

Чтение книги онлайн.

Читать онлайн книгу The Reunion Of A Lifetime - Fiona Lowe страница 4

The Reunion Of A Lifetime - Fiona  Lowe

Скачать книгу

made him feel queasy, let alone trying to eat any.

      Men’s shouts rent the air, sliding in through the open window, and Charlie’s empty stomach fell to his feet. He didn’t understand a lot of Bislama and his French was tourist-competent, not medical literate, but the last time he’d heard a commotion like this they’d found an islander who’d been trapped under rubble for three days. Despite the joy in finding the man alive, Charlie had been faced with the task of amputating the patient’s crushed leg in the hope of saving his life.

      ‘Grab my medical kit.’ Charlie lurched to his feet, taking a moment for his head to stop spinning.

      ‘No, boss!’ Bert grinned at him. ‘This good news. Come on.’

      He followed Bert’s brightly coloured shirt through the door and down a short corridor until they were both outside and in the glare of a fearless sun. Under the wind-stripped and almost naked palm trees Charlie glimpsed heaven—a group of men and women dressed in fresh and clean Australia Aid uniforms. All of them clutched the distinctive and life-giving red and blue medical packs. At the back of the cluster he recognised the distinctive height of Richard di Stasio—his boss.

      Relief carried him towards them, his long strides steady. ‘You lot are a sight for sore eyes. That is, if you’ve brought IV fluids and antibiotics.’

      ‘Would we dare turn up without them?’ Richard shook Charlie’s hand and his dark eyes did one of those quick head-to-toe assessments that emergency medicos specialised in. ‘You’re looking a bit rough, Charlie.’

      He shrugged as they walked inside. ‘It’s been tough. You saw what’s left of the town on your trip from the wharf? Or what’s not left of it, to be more precise. Half the hospital’s out of action and we’ve got limited power. The fuel for the generator’s dangerously low, the sat phone’s dodgy and I’ve got three patients battling septic shock.’

      ‘You look a bit shocked yourself.’

      ‘Nah.’ He ran his hand through his hair and suddenly realised it was longer than it had been in years. ‘No more than usual.’

      Richard shook his head. ‘You look like you’ve dropped at least five kilos. Possibly more.’

      ‘The joys of a fish and taro diet. Listen, Richard,’ he said, suddenly gripped by urgency. ‘I’ll happily give you a full report as soon as I’ve administered those antibiotics to my three sickies.’

      ‘Keith can do that. You’re handing over to him and then you’re getting on the boat to Port Vila and going home.’

      No! Every part of Charlie stilled. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. There’s still mountains of work for me to do here.’

      Richard sighed. ‘You know the rules, Charlie. First response teams get pulled out after two weeks when second response arrives.’

      ‘Hell, Richard, you know as well as I do that you’re the first response team, not me. The only reason I’m on Pipatoa is because I came for a few days of diving after teaching the emergency trauma course in Port Vila. Two days after I arrived, Samuel blew up and I got stuck here.’

      ‘That’s irrelevant. The bottom line is you’ve done the job of first response without the back-up of a trained team. It doesn’t take a medical person to see you’re completely exhausted. God, man, have you slept at all since the cyclone?’

      ‘I’m fine,’ Charlie ground out. ‘Besides, you’ve got me pencilled in for Ghana next week, right?’

      ‘That was before you lived through the most savage cyclone to hit the area in forty years.’

      ‘So?’

      Richard’s brows rose at the belligerence in Charlie’s voice. ‘So, HR’s been on my case because you haven’t taken any leave in eighteen months. Now you’ve lived through the cyclone, the psych’s waded in.’

      Charlie’s head ached and his gut cramped. ‘I don’t want to take leave. I want to go to Ghana.’

      ‘Neither of us has a choice in the matter. Even if HR weren’t getting antsy about your accumulated leave, you’re mandated to take time out of the field and attend three post-disaster counselling sessions.’

      ‘Hell, Richard, I’m not going to get PTSD.’

      ‘You know as well as I do no one’s bulletproof. The rules exist to protect Australia Aid workers. As an employee, those rules apply to you.’

      ‘But you’re the boss.’ Charlie hated the frantic pitch to his voice. ‘You can pull strings.’

      Richard shook his head. ‘Not this time, mate. Besides, it’s not the end of the world. There are worse times than summer in Australia to go home.’

      It was never a good time to go home. Not that he considered Australia home anymore, or anywhere else for that matter. ‘How long am I on enforced leave?’

      ‘A minimum of six weeks.’

      ‘What?’ His bark of disbelief bounced off the walls and came back to bite him.

      ‘Longer if the psych isn’t happy with your progress, but I’m sure you’ll be back in action before Easter.’ Richard gave him a fatherly clap on the shoulder. ‘Look on the bright side. Your family will be happy to see you.’

      ‘Oh, yeah. They’ll be thrilled,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Any chance the psych will visit me in Bali?’

      Richard laughed, completely missing the point that Charlie was deadly serious. ‘Send me a postcard from that joint you summered in as a kid. I’ve always thought it sounded like a place I should take my kids.’

      Charlie stared at Richard, stunned that he’d even remembered that conversation—hell, he’d forgotten all about it. He guessed it had taken place about three years ago, on the night of ‘the anniversary’. He’d found himself with a bottle of Scotch and, a little while later, Richard for company. He hadn’t told his boss the significance of the date—hell, he never told anyone that—but to prevent Richard from asking too many probing questions about why one of his best trauma surgeons was uncharacteristically nursing a bottle of top-shelf liquor, Charlie had entertained him with stories about his childhood summers on the coast.

      He’d used words to paint pictures of the old rambling house on top of the cliff, the white sandy beach far below that squeaked when the sand particles rubbed together, the seventy grey weathered wooden steps that led down to the sea and the roar of the surf that filled the air with the zip and tang of salt. He’d waxed lyrical about the exhilaration of catching a wave and riding it all the way in to shore.

      Horseshoe Bay. He hadn’t thought about the place in years. Despite growing up in the privileged leafy suburbs of Melbourne with every possible advantage, his happiest memories were the holidays at Bide-A-While. He’d spent every long, hot summer there and he and his brother had run wild—swimming, surfing and beachcombing—the sun bleaching their hair white and darkening their skin to honey brown.

      When he’d turned sixteen, they added bonfires on the beach and parties to their repertoire. He’d shared his first kiss at Horseshoe Bay. He’d ecstatically given up his virginity in the dunes with—God, what was her name? Other than a flash of white skin illuminated

Скачать книгу