Читать книгу: «A Miracle For The Baby Doctor»

CHAPTER ONE

STEVE PARKED THE battered four-wheel drive in the short-stay area of the car park and hurried towards the arrivals hall.

When he realised he hadn’t a clue what the woman he was to meet looked like, he hurried back to the car, tore the top off a carton and hurriedly scrawled ‘Dr Hawthorne’ on it.

Okay, so the name on a card made him look like a limo driver, except that in flip-flops, shorts and a vivid print shirt he didn’t even come close to their tailored elegance.

And the limo drivers, he noticed, now he was back in the crowd outside the customs area, were holding professionally printed signs.

He should have done better. After all, this woman was doing him a huge favour, coming out here on a moment’s notice to cover for his usual embryologist.

He could at least have worn a quieter shirt.

It was the pelican’s fault!

He’d been heading for the shower when two young boys had appeared with an injured pelican—hauling it behind them in a homemade go-cart. The bird had appeared to have an injured wing but its docility had made Steve suspect it had other injuries as well.

He’d explained to the boys that they needed a vet, then realised they could hardly drag it all the way to the north of the island where the vet had his practice. Packing all three of them—and the cart—into his car and driving them out there had seemed the only solution, which had left him too late to shower and change.

So now he was late, and probably smelling of fish.

It couldn’t be helped. He was sure the woman would understand...

Passengers began to emerge, and he studied each one. The holidaymakers were obvious, already in party mode, smiling and laughing as they came through the doors, looking around eagerly for their first glimpse of the tropical paradise. Returning locals he could also pick out quite easily. Men in business suits or harassed mothers herding troops of children.

Then came a tall woman, light brown hair slicked back into some kind of neat arrangement at the back of her head, loose slacks and a blue shirt, a hard-case silver suitcase wheeling along behind her.

Elegant. Sophisticated.

Not Dr Hawthorne, he decided, as the embryologists he knew were more the absent-minded professor type, usually clad in distressed jeans and band name T-shirts beneath their lab coats.

The elegant woman paused, scanning the names held up in the crowd, passed by his and started towards someone else.

It was stupid to feel disappointed, there were plenty more passengers to come. Apart from which, she’d be a work colleague—work being the operative word.

‘Dr Ransome?’

He turned, and there was the woman, strange green eyes studying him quite intensely.

Green?

He checked—maybe blue, not green, or blue-green, hard to tell.

‘You are Dr Ransome?’ she said with an edge of impatience. ‘Helen told me you would meet me.’

‘Sorry, yes,’ Steve said, and held out his hand, realising too late that it was still holding his makeshift sign.

‘Oops,’ he said, tucking the sign under his arm.

He reached out to take the handle of her suitcase.

‘The car’s out this way,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘It was so good of you to come—so good of Andy to spare you. My usual embryologist had a skiing accident in New Zealand last month and is still in traction.’

Was he talking too much?

He usually did when he was rattled, and the cool, sophisticated woman walking beside him had rattled every bone in his body.

But why, for heaven’s sake? It wasn’t that there weren’t—or hadn’t been—other such women in his life.

He slid a sidelong glance towards her.

Composed, that’s what she was, which put him at a disadvantage as, right now, he was...well, badly dressed and almost certainly in need of a shower. The boys had been trying to feed the bird small fish.

‘Sorry about the rough sign, not to mention the clothes. There was this pelican, you see...’

She obviously didn’t see, probably wasn’t even listening.

He changed tack.

‘Do you know Vanuatu? It’s a great place—not only the islands themselves but the people. Originally settled by the French, so many people still speak that language, although they speak English as well—tourism has made sure of that.’

He reached the battered vehicle and immediately wished it was more impressive—a limo perhaps.

Because she looked like a woman who’d drive in limos rather than battered four-wheel drives?

But some demon of uncertainty had set up home in his mind, and he heard himself apologising.

‘Sorry it’s not a limo, but the budget is always tight and I’d rather spend money on the clinic.’

‘Sounds reasonable to me,’ she said coolly.

He lifted the silver case into the rear, and came around to open the door for her, but she was already climbing in. Elegantly.

He held the door while she settled herself, then held out his hand.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t even know what to call you. It’s been a strange morning.’

She offered a cool smile but did take his hand in a firm clasp.

‘Francesca,’ she said. ‘But just call me Fran.’

He forcibly withdrew his hand, which had wanted to linger in hers, and closed the door.

But not before noticing that her hair was coming just slightly loose from its restraints, a golden-brown strand curling around to touch her chin.

The sun would streak it paler still. And suddenly he pictured this woman on one of the island’s deserted beaches, a sarong wrapped around her bikini, sun streaks in the hair blowing back from her face as she walked beside him.

His body stirred and he shook his head at the fantasy. For a start she was a colleague, and just looking at her he could see she was hardly the ‘strolling on the beach in a sarong’ type, not that that stopped the stirring.

‘Have you been to the islands before?’ he asked, as he settled behind the wheel, coaxed a muted grumble from the engine, and drove towards the exit gates.

‘No, although I know many Australians holiday here.’

‘I hope you’ll like it. The climate’s great, although it can get a trifle hot at times, and the people are wonderful.’

She turned towards him, the blue-green eyes taking in his bright shirt and, no doubt, the stubble on his unshaven chin.

The pelican again...

‘Did you holiday here? Is that why you’ve come back here to work?’

He smiled, remembering his co-workers’ disbelief when he’d told them of his plans to start the clinic.

‘No, but we had a couple—Vanuatuans—who came to my clinic in Sydney. They were so desperate to have a child they had sold everything they had, including the fishing boat that was their livelihood, to fund their trip.’

The words pierced the armour Fran had built around her heart and she felt again the pain of not conceiving. Of not having the child she’d so wanted.

You’re over this, she reminded herself, and concentrated on Steve’s explanation.

‘But to sell their boat—their livelihood?’

He turned more fully to her now, and the compassion she read in his face warmed her to the man with whom she would work—a scruffy, unshaven, slightly smelly, yet still a darkly attractive man.

Attractive?

What was she thinking?

But he was speaking, explaining.

‘Why not sell the boat if they had no child to inherit it?’ he said softly, and she felt the barb go deeper into her heart.

She nodded, thinking of the couple.

‘Few people consider the side-effects of infertility,’ she said softly, remembering. ‘The loss of self-esteem, the feelings of pointlessness, the loss of libido that failure can cause, which must be devastating for any man, but would, I imagine, be even worse for people of proud warrior races like the islanders.’

He glanced her way, questions in his eyes, and she realised she’d spoken too passionately—come too close to giving herself away.

Talk work—that was the answer.

‘So you came here? But not permanently? How does that work?’

He smiled.

‘You’ll see, but for now you should be looking about you, not talking work. This is Vila, capital of the island nation. You can still see a lot of the old buildings that have survived from the days the French ran the country.’

Fran looked around obediently and was soon charmed by the riot of colour in the gardens around all the buildings, from small huts to old colonial buildings, no longer white but grey with age, some in a state of disrepair, but all boasting trailing bougainvillea in rich red or purple, and white lilies running riot in unkempt garden beds. Ferns and big-leafed plants provided lush greenery, so altogether Fran’s immediate impression was one of colour.

They drove up a hill, the buildings becoming smaller and more suburban, and right at the top sat what could only be a mansion with another large building further along the ridge.

They turned that way and an ambulance streaking towards it told her it was the hospital.

‘Is the clinic at the hospital?’ she asked.

‘Not quite—but we’re around the back here. A kind of adjunct to it,’ her chauffeur told her. ‘Our building used to be nurses’ quarters but the hospital doesn’t have live-in nurses any more.’

He pulled up in a driveway beside an enormous red bougainvillea that had wound its way up a tall tree.

Colour everywhere!

And warmth, she realised as she stepped out of the vehicle.

A warmth that wrapped, blanket-like, around her.

They had stopped beside a run-down building that seemed to ramble down the hill behind the hospital. It had cracks in the once white walls, and dark, damp-looking patches where plaster had fallen off. Vines seemed to be growing out of the top of it, and the overall impression was of desertion and decay.

A tall local man came out to greet the car, holding out his hand to Fran.

‘I am Akila. I am the caretaker here and will also take care of you,’ he said, pride deepening an already deep voice. ‘We are very pleased to have you come and work with us.’

He waved his hand towards the building.

‘Outside this must look bad to you, but wait until you see inside,’ Akila told her, obviously aware of strangers’ first impressions.

And he was right.

The foyer was painted bright yellow, making it seem as if the sunshine from outside had penetrated the gloomy walls. A huge urn of flowers—long stems of something sweet-scented and vividly red—stood against the far wall, grabbing Fran’s attention the moment she came through the door.

A cheerful young woman appeared in a brightly flowered long flowing dress Fran recognised as a muumuu. Zoe hugged Fran as Steve introduced her.

‘This is where we live when we’re here. Zoe will show you our quarters. Both she and Akila live locally and work at the hospital, but come down to help out when we are working on the island,’ Steve said. ‘Zoe keeps the place tidy for us and makes sure there is always food in the cupboards and refrigerator so we don’t starve to death, while Akila is on call for any emergencies—of which we get plenty—power outages, et cetera. But don’t worry we have generators which kick in to keep your incubator warm.’

Fran felt a niggle of apprehension, and for a moment longed to be back in her nice, safe, big, anonymous lab. These people were all too friendly. They were a team, but clearly friends as well. Why hadn’t she considered that it would be a small and intimate staff in this island clinic?

Friendly!

A queasy feeling in her stomach reminded her just how long it had been since she’d done friendly! At first, the pain of the IVF failures had made her curl into herself, erecting a cool polite barrier that outsiders saw.

Then the divorce and the humiliating knowledge that Nigel and Clarissa had been involved for months had made her draw away from the few friends she hadn’t shut out earlier. The only good thing that had come out of the whole mess was a better understanding of her mother, who had also built a protective shell around herself when her husband had departed. At last she now understood her mother’s detached behaviour during her childhood years.

Hurt prevention...

Fran had drifted across the hall to touch the leaves and flowers in the big display while these thoughts tumbled through her head.

‘I will show you your room,’ Zoe said, bringing Fran abruptly back to the present.

‘And I’ve got to check on something but I’ll be over later and will take you through the whole facility then,’ Steve added.

Fran felt a new wave of...not panic perhaps but definite uncertainty. Did she really need to see the whole facility? Of course she wanted to see the laboratory—it was where she would be working—and seeing how the place was set up would be interesting, but...

Something about the warm friendliness of the people was beginning to unsettle her—the realisation that they were all one big happy family, with Steve at the centre of it. It was threatening to cause cracks in barriers she had carefully erected between herself and others.

And all because they were welcoming her, were friendly? She could hardly resent that...

It had to be the heat, she decided, following Zoe across a courtyard filled with rioting plants, most with broad leaves and drooping fronds of flowers, and the same sweet, indefinable perfume.

‘Ginger,’ Zoe explained when Fran asked, and she looked more closely at the plants, not exactly surprised but trying to relate the small, bulbous roots she bought at the greengrocer to these exuberant, leafy plants.

The living quarters were adequate, freshly painted and clean, two bedrooms, a shared bathroom—she could live with that—and a combined living, dining, kitchen area.

‘Steve, he barbecues,’ Zoe told her, leading Fran out the back door onto a beautiful, shaded deck area, with a barbecue bigger and more complex than the kitchen back at her flat. ‘He brought the barbecue here but it is for everyone who stays. Patients bring fish and chicken and he says they are best on barbecue.’

Fran smiled. It was obvious the giant barbecue was the subject of much conversation among the staff at the clinic.

Zoe then indicated which bedroom would be hers and left her to unpack. It was a spacious room, with two beds—king singles or small doubles, she couldn’t tell—two wooden dressers with drawers, and a built-in cupboard. A vase filled with wide leaves and bright flowers stood on one of the dressers, welcoming her.

Uncertain of what lay ahead, Fran opted not to shower but simply to freshen up. She unclipped her hair, then made her way to the bathroom. She’d washed her face and was brushing out her hair when Steve arrived, calling hello from the front door.

She came out of her room, hairbrush still in her hand, anxious to tell him she’d only be a moment.

Steve stood in the doorway. Okay, so he’d assumed she’d be a very attractive woman with her hair waving softly around her face, but this attractive? She was smiling, saying something, but all he could do was stand and gawp.

Fortunately for his peace of mind she disappeared back into her room, returning seconds later with her hair neatly restrained, though this time more casually in a low ponytail at the base of her skull, one tail of the scarf that held it dangling forward over her white shirt, drawing his attention to—

No, his attention wasn’t going there.

‘I’ll show you our set-up,’ he said, aware his voice sounded rough. And why wouldn’t it because his mouth, for surely the first time in his life, had gone dry.

But his pride in the little clinic diverted his mind away from Fran as a very attractive woman—or almost diverted it—while he showed her around the rooms.

‘It’s very well set out, and far more complex than I’d imagined. You spoke about the couple who came to you in Sydney for IVF, and wanting to have something here, but this is impressive—it’s got everything you need, just on a smaller scale.’

‘I wanted to set up a place where couples can come and have their infertility investigated right from the start,’ he explained. ‘I can’t help feeling people are sometimes prey to exploitation. As you know, the most common cause of women not ovulating is PCO, and polycystic ovary syndrome can be treated with drugs. I believe, before IVF is even mentioned, ethical specialists must determine the underlying cause of the problem, and if possible treat it.’

Fran gave a little shake of her head. These were thoughts she’d had herself. Not that any of the specialists she’d seen had been unethical, but it had often seemed to her that they rushed towards IVF as an answer without considering alternatives.

‘I imagine drugs like clomiphene are a case in point,’ she said, seeing the way his mind worked. ‘With very little in the way of side-effects they can encourage the production of follicle-stimulating hormone, so the ovaries are better able to produce follicles. That in itself can lead to a previously infertile couple conceiving.’

‘Or, unfortunately, it could sometimes lead to cysts in the ovaries, which means the patient needs to be checked regularly. That’s why we employ a full-time O and G specialist who works at the hospital as well as here at the clinic. We want to be able to take a patient right through any treatment available, even Fallopian tube repairs, before resorting to IVF.’