a damn about how small he was making anybody here feel.
The raking glance finished with Bella.
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
He was speaking slowly, with a tone that suggested her intellect was sadly below par. A bit like the way he’d told her she should be in a nursery if she was going to wear her surgical mask like a bib.
Dislike was firmly established now. Old. Rebellion bloomed.
‘We’re having a line-dancing class,’ she informed Oliver Dawson crisply. ‘To be precise, we’re learning The Electric Slide.’ She smiled at the inpatients she’d found looking so incredibly bored in the dayroom of this ward when she’d started working here last week.
It wasn’t as though she was forcing them to do something they didn’t want to do and she wasn’t supposed to be doing anything else herself. She was on her break, for heaven’s sake. She wasn’t doing anything wrong and they’d all been having fun until this pompous surgical consultant had interrupted them. Now she might have trouble persuading any of these oldies to get out of their chairs again judging by how confused poor Edna was looking. By the time Wally had looked from Bella to Mr Dawson and back again, he was huffing indignantly. He’d probably need his inhaler very soon. She smiled at them all reassuringly.
‘We were getting pretty good at it, too, weren’t we? Let’s leave it for now and we’ll have another go tomorrow. I’ll bet we can get that stomp and clap on four sorted by then.’
Verity, who’d been bravely attempting line dancing with the aid of her walking frame, was the only one who smiled back.
‘That will be lovely, dear. Remember not to come and get me until after I’ve fed the hens, though.’
Oliver shook his head with disbelief, turning away as he saw the nurse starting to assist her patients back to their chairs in front of the television soap opera running in the corner of the dayroom. He even heard her start to discuss the merits of different types of hen food with the confused old woman after telling the overweight gentleman to have a look in his dressing-gown pocket for his inhaler.
Line dancing? With frail, elderly patients who were at enough risk of falling and injuring themselves just getting through the activities of daily life?
Ridiculous. Irresponsible and … and airheaded. About what he would have expected from the nurse whose name he didn’t even know.
He’d remembered her, though, hadn’t he? Even in theatre scrubs she’d been distracting, with those unusually dark blue eyes and the wispy blonde curls that seemed incapable of accepting complete restraint within the confines of an elasticised theatre cap. She had a mouth that seemed permanently on the verge of laughter, too. Inappropriate in the serious environment of an operating theatre and he’d certainly noticed that when she’d had the nerve to wander into his theatre with her mask dangling around her neck like a damn bib.
Oliver stalked past the nurses’ station on his way up the back stretch of the U-shaped ward. He caught sight of another nurse’s uniform behind the counter.
‘Sally?’
The charge nurse looking up from the computer screen. ‘Oliver! You’re early for a visit today.’
‘I had an empty slot in my outpatient clinic so I thought I’d pop up.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Have you got any idea what’s going on in your dayroom?’
Sally grinned. ‘The line-dancing class?’
Oliver didn’t return the smile. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s great, isn’t it? She’s only been here for a few days but I’ve never seen anyone establish a rapport with patients quite the way she has.’
‘I can imagine.’
Sally didn’t seem to notice the dryness of his comment.
‘She’s getting people moving more than any of the physios or occupational therapists have simply because she’s making it so much fun. Daniel told me today that he’s thinking of incorporating line dancing into his future physiotherapy routines. He’s never thought of it before because he works with people individually. Diversional therapy for whole groups is something we associate with rest homes, not hospitals.’ Sally shook her head. ‘Who’d have thought? A junior nurse could be starting a revolution.’
Oliver pressed his lips together. There wasn’t much point in making his disapproval known if the physiotherapists and other professionals were happy about this. Would he have to wait until of the patients tripped over and broke a wrist or worse before he could step in and make sure the plug got pulled on this unconventional and very dubious activity?
Frustration bubbled. It wasn’t even his call really, was it? He could, of course, have a word with his senior colleagues in Geriatrics. Yes … that was the way to go. He didn’t usually tap into the influence he had always been able to exert but maybe this was a case of having to override the professional with a more personal status. The thought should have been satisfying but, instead, it led to a very disturbing thought. The muscles around his lips strengthened their hold.
‘Lady Dorothy?’ The query was succinct. Surely his mother wouldn’t have been tempted to not only make a fool of herself but endanger her fragile health by cooperating with the blonde bimbo nurse and her outrageous activities?
Sally’s face softened. ‘She’s in her room,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry, Oliver, but she’s still refusing to try anything in the way of rehab or social activities.’
With a nod, Oliver was on his way to the private room at the end of the corridor. Refusing to participate in social activities in an environment like this was perfectly understandable but some form of rehab was essential if his mother wasn’t going to lose an enormous amount of quality of life. He paused for a moment in front of the closed door of the private room and the curtains on the corridor side windows were pulled shut. How many people would be walking past without even realising that one of most revered society matrons in Auckland was an inpatient of St Patrick’s?
Lady Dorothy Dawson was in bed. She was resting against a mound of pillows with a silk shawl around her shoulders and the silver waves of her hair brushed and shining but she looked pale and unhappy. Her face brightened as Oliver moved to her bedside.
‘Oliver! What a lovely surprise!’
Kissing the soft skin of his mother’s cheek, Oliver realised that part of her pallor was due to the fact that Lady Dorothy was not wearing any make-up. She’d probably allowed a nurse to brush her hair but to let a stranger do something more personal like applying foundation or lipstick would be galling, wouldn’t it? Especially to a woman who’d always been as proud and independent as his mother.
‘How are you, Mother?’
‘I’m fine, darling. I’d like to go home.’
‘Soon.’ His smile hid an increasing anxiety as Oliver took a seemingly casual glance around the room. He was becoming very good at assimilating the information he needed at lightning speed.
The joints in his mother’s hands were still swollen and angry from the vicious recurrence of her arthritis. She looked as if she was still losing weight, probably because she was refusing to allow anyone, even him, to help her eat and for days now
