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
