Relative Ethics. Caroline Anderson
Davis? Is there anything you can tell me about how your husband’s been feeling recently that might help us?’
‘Oh, Doctor! He’s been off for weeks—hasn’t wanted his food, and he’s never been a picky eater. Complained of his feet swelling, and feeling breathless, and yesterday he was sick again—then this morning I thought he was better, because he went out into the garden and picked some strawberries for breakfast. He’s been in the garden a lot recently, that’s how he’s got that lovely tan, but he hasn’t looked well, and the backache——’
Bronwen leapt up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Davis. That’s been most helpful. I’ll get a nurse to take you back to the waiting-room.’
She all but ran back down the corridor to the treatment room.
She took the nurse to one side. ‘How is he?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Not good. Chest pain seems to be worse. I’ve put him on a monitor.’
Thanks. Taken any bloods? I think we need a total chemistry and blood count. It might be his heart, but I’m putting my money on renal failure.’
‘May one ask why?’
At the sound of the impeccable Oxford accent, Bronwen turned and looked up—and up.
‘Dr Marumba?’
He clicked his heels and inclined his head with a slight smile. ‘Call me Jesus. Everybody does. You were about to tell me…?’
While he ran gentle but thorough hands over the frail patient, Bron repeated the symptoms—nausea, vomiting, backache, breathlessness, oedema, chest pain, and also the all-over suntan—and then delivered the coup de grâce.
‘He had strawberries for breakfast. Aren’t they supposed to be very high in potassium?’
He arched an eloquent eyebrow. ‘Clever girl. Well done. If it is renal failure, it may well have pushed him over the edge. Let’s get him in and then we can dialyse him PDQ if necessary.’
He turned to the patient, and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘OK, Mr Davis, I think we’d better have you in for a closer look at your problem. We’ll soon have you feeling better. I’ll go and have a chat with your wife now, and she can come in and sit with you until we take you up.’
He tucked a hand in the crook of Bron’s arm and gave her the benefit of a ten-megawatt smile that could well have been a monument to the success of some unknown orthodontist, but Bron would lay odds that the dentition, like the man, was totally without artifice.
‘Let’s get a coffee,’ he said.
Bron’s lips twitched into a grin. She’d bet he was a real heartbreaker. ‘Good idea.’ They walked down to Kathleen’s desk and arranged for Mr Davis’s transfer to ITU, then went into the staff-room.
While she poured the coffee, she studied Dr Marumba as he prowled around the room. He looks like an Olympic athlete, she thought, with that powerful build and those incredibly long legs. His ebony skin was in stark contrast to the gleaming white of his coat, and his eyes twinkled like jet. He took the proffered cup and that smile broke out again on his face, lighting up the corners of the room with its brilliance.
‘Tell me something,’ Bron said, eyeing this delightful giant over the rim of her cup. ‘Why Jesus?’
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Apart from the miracles I perform? Because it’s my name. True! They call the medical wards heaven—not usually in my hearing, and not usually in front of the patients—it’s been known to upset them!’
He gave a rich chuckle, and drained his coffee. ‘Back to the grind. I’ll go and talk to Mrs Davis. Good to meet you, Bronwen, and well spotted, by the way. I’ll catch up with you later.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, OK. Thanks for coming down—he was my first patient. And come to think of it, if I don’t get back out there, he could be my last!’
He laughed. ‘You could always come and work for me if Harris throws you out!’
He gave a jaunty wave and left, and, setting her cup down, Bron followed him.
The rest of the morning passed in a whirlwind of minor cuts and bruises, sprains, simple fractures and a very straightforward case of a child who had swigged an unknown quantity out of a bottle of cough medicine, and obligingly vomited with the aid of a little ipecacuanha.
His mother was relieved and grateful, and marched the little terror out to wreak further havoc.
‘I bet we see him again before too long!’ Kathleen laughed, and Bron found herself smiling. So far, so good.
‘All quiet now, Bron? Come on up for lunch, and meet some of the others.’ Jim Harris dropped a friendly arm around her shoulders, and gave her an affectionate squeeze. ‘How are you doing? Well done with that old boy—jolly good start. Marumba was very impressed. Clever of you to pick up on the strawberries. Here, dump your coat, forget reality for a while.’
He filled her in on the history of the building and the current state of the hospital as they went, and by the time they arrived at the staff dining-room she was totally lost again.
There was, predictably, a sea of new faces, all friendly and, she found, instantly disconnected from their names. I suppose I’ll sort them all out in time, she thought, and concentrated on smiling and avoiding too many questions about her marital status and past medical career.
When they had finished eating, Jim led her through to the coffee-lounge and sat her down with her back to the door.
‘Don’t mind, do you? Only there’s someone I want you to meet—you’ll be bound to work with him fairly soon. General surgeon—excellent chap. Started here about a year ago. He was senior registrar at Guy’s until then, and became a consultant at thirty-one. Meteoric rise, but he’s extraordinarily gifted. Ah, talk of the devil——’
‘As opposed to Jesus?’ Bronwen quipped, but the laugh died in her throat as Jim rose to his feet.
‘Oliver, I want you to meet my new registrar, Bronwen Jones. Bronwen, Oliver Henderson, boy-wonder of general surgery.’
In slow motion, frame by frame, Bronwen lifted her head and made herself meet the clear, steady gaze that had haunted her for almost two years—the longest, loneliest, most rewarding and challenging years of her life.
‘Hello, Bron.’ The voice like oiled sandpaper, deep and husky, rasped over her senses, leaving her nerve-endings raw.
She closed her eyes against the sensation, and felt the years slip away …
BRONWEN lifted her eyes and looked around the crowded conference room. There was no sign of Jane—typical! And there was that man again, propping up the wall with indolent grace: tall, well-built, a lock of his heavy gold-blond hair falling over his eyes so that he had to keep thrusting it back with his fingers.
Every time Bronwen looked up he was there, watching her with those startling blue eyes like a Mediterranean dawn, with a sultry promise of heat.
She shifted uncomfortably on her chair and cursed Jane for her absence. Where was she? He was watching her again.
She made a deliberate attempt to ignore him. It lasted perhaps fifteen seconds, and then her eyes were drawn back to his, tangling helplessly in that clear, bright gaze that seemed to dip into her soul. A slow, sensuous smile touched the corner of his mouth, and she blushed and looked away, more determined than ever to ignore him. Just a conference Lothario, she decided, and scoured the room for her colleague.
‘Hi!’ Jane came up behind her, and struggled inelegantly over the back of the seat, dropping into it with a plop. ‘Just in time. Phew! What a scorcher. Have I missed anything?’
Bron