Heart Surgeon in Portugal (12 page)

‘Be ready for ten,’ he said tersely, and the bedroom door closed behind him in a slam of irritation.

Ellie sipped her coffee with a forlorn air, hurt by this sudden withdrawal of doctorly concern. She had almost forgotten that this kind and solicitous Rafe was also Mr Big of the scornful eyes and whiplash tongue. Best not let herself forget these were opposing facets of one complex man. Brilliant — yet caring. Awesome — yet dangerously easy to fall in love with, in spite of all his complications.

She dressed simply in a denim miniskirt and a sleeveless white cotton top with a high boat neckline. Her bare arms would allow the doctor plenty of flesh to attack in his search for a vein.

She showered, shampooed and dried her hair and brushed it till it fluffed about her head in shining waves, then scrunched the whole lot up in a ponytail. ‘At last! I’m going to Rafe’s hospital! Not in the way I’d hoped, but still ....’ She stood still for a moment trying to ignore her excitement and concentrate on her physical condition. The headache was gone. No trace of a sore throat. Rafe was right. In this climate she really must wear a hat.

The scenic drive into the Monchique hills was captivating. As they travelled up winding roads lined with cork oaks, Rafe told her it was known as the Garden of the Algarve. Ellie couldn’t think why she hadn’t explored further inland - heaven knows, she had plenty of time to herself.

With Rafe’s encouragement she told him about growing up with a brilliant elder brother and gifted parents who had been generous with their talents so that she and Jon both spoke fluent French and German and played violin and trombone (Jon) and piano and violin (Ellie). Rafe was surprisingly receptive and would interrupt with thoughtful and interested comments. If he was disturbed to learn that in the autumn RGN Robey would be doing post-graduate training at his very own London hospital, he hid his reaction very well …

‘They couldn't guarantee me a place till mid- September,’ Ellie prattled on happily, ‘but under the circumstances it’s turned out for the best.’

Rafe slowed down to overtake a cart drawn by a mule, giving the animal a wide careful berth. From under a battered straw hat a whiskery old man at the reins stared at them, passing strangers invading his world for a moment or two. ‘Of course, only certain hospitals offer these advanced courses for RGNs. I particularly enjoyed my time working in Critical Care when I was doing my training so I’m thrilled to have a place for the autumn -’

‘Let’s hope your tests are clear then,’ he interrupted, his hand for the briefest moment brushing her bare thigh as he changed gear.

The trajectory of the car began to curve quite steeply upwards, leading into the hills. Ellie told herself to shut up now. Rafe Harland couldn’t be interested in her endless chatter. It was partly nervousness anyway; a discomfiture arising from the intimate proximity of the two of them together in an enclosed space. He was such a powerful presence. When you looked at those strong wrists and the long-fingered hands on the steering wheel and reminded yourself that they were capable of handling something so fragile as a heart without damaging it, it took your breath away.

She turned and looked back over her shoulder as they passed a group of cyclists in pointed helmets and shiny coloured lycra tights, toiling on pin-thin tyres up the steep road. How hot and tired they must be feeling. Her eyes settled on Rafe’s briefcase and laptop, partly covered on the back seat by a grey linen jacket with a Brooks Brothers label clearly showing. She was beginning to wish the journey over. She had no idea he was travelling so far each day – it must be a good half-hour since they set off.

‘How did you find out about this Centre?’ she suddenly asked, surprised that her voice sounded so steady and so calm.

‘Fair question. I got a call from a colleague in San Francisco asking if I could get out here quickly to do a complex procedure on a young boy from Lisbon, because the American surgeon wasn’t going to be able fly to Europe in time. And through this I came to be one of a small group of specialists prepared, on a voluntary basis, to lend their services to the Centre. This led to the idea of a collaborative research project into the effects on cardiac disease of a diet rich in olive oil, the university got involved - and that’s the paper I'm working on now, to be presented in the late autumn at an international congress here in Lisbon. It's a comparative study of blood-lipid profiles - and I've managed to come up with some very interesting results from the material I've been collating. Right then – here we are!’

It was almost tangible, the surge of energy emanating from the surgeon as he slid to a smooth halt in the parking space reserved for his Renault. Ellie clambered out and found herself in a quadrangle surrounded by white one-storey buildings. Rafe was already striding ahead, and she was obliged to break into a run to catch him before he disappeared from sight. Inside the Centre, though, all was calm and reassurance.

Once through the doors it was easy to imagine sick people relaxing with relief and gladly putting themselves into the care of the smiling staff who came to greet them.

All the same, it still came as a bit of a shock to Ellie. ‘You never told me the nurses here were
nuns
!’ she hissed in a surprised whisper. Their uniforms were white cotton dresses and their hair was clipped out of sight under white veils and they wore white stockings and sturdy white lace-up shoes.

‘They’re not
all
nuns - only the nurses wearing veils and crucifixes,’ returned Rafe blandly. ‘But they’re all specialists in cardiac care and the nurses are locally trained. Don't look so incredulous ... surely you never supposed I was working in a harem?’ He opened the door to his office and ushered her inside. ‘Wait here while I find the Reverend Mother, Dr Flora, and tell her I've brought in a new patient. Shan't be five minutes.’

But he was. Ellie grew tired of staring at the shelves of books and the desk piled with papers. She peeked out into the corridor and contemplated the gleaming expanse of pale floors and the immaculate white paintwork. On the wall opposite was a plain wooden crucifix. Nearby, a small table, with a blue-and-white pottery vase crammed with yellow and white daisies. Farther down the corridor two wheelchairs were lined up neatly against the window wall, ready for use. Ellie sniffed the familiar smell of hospitals and her tension began to subside. But wherever had Rafe got to? Had he forgotten her so quickly?

The footsteps had approached so noiselessly from the opposite direction that Ellie was quite oblivious of Dr Flora’s arrival. ‘Ah—Miss Robey. Here you are, dear.’

Ellie spun round to find herself eye to eye with
another
nun, a tall and very English lady with a posh old-fashioned voice, comfortably plump beneath the folds of her white medical coat, a crucifix on a long piece of black cord jostling with the stethoscope clipped casually about her neck.

‘I'm Dr Flora. Welcome!’ Warm hands shook Ellie’s and a motherly arm went round her shoulders. ‘Now, Rafe's been telling me about your glandular fever, you poor dear, and the tests he wants to do today. But as he's tied up for the moment, I propose you let me show you our Centre. Since you're a nurse you'll be interested to see where Mr Harland does his splendid and valuable work, eh?’ With easy informality she tucked an arm through Ellie's, and with no appearance of haste led her down passages and in and out of rooms and offices and treatment areas, introducing Ellie to a procession of white-clad nurses so similarly possessed of a cheery and confident calm that Ellie began to forget who were professed nuns and who were locally-trained nurses.

‘We’re going to have a new and state of the art Theatre Wing. Thanks to Rafe standing in for me the other night and so deeply impressing our benefactors. They can’t stop singing his praises. And I hear they met you as well.’

Rafe! ... this extraordinary woman was singing the praises of Mr Harland himself, as if he were the Archangel Gabriel made flesh and admitted to the ranks of the Royal College of Surgeons.

Ellie couldn’t conceal the flush that heated her neck and cheeks as she now saw what a close call it had been; how she had so nearly wrecked the evening for him, for Dr Flora, for the whole future of the Cardiac Centre. ‘Yes,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Yes, I – er I did meet them.’

‘You sound as if you’ve got a bit of a sore throat, dear. And I wonder if you haven’t got a bit of a temperature there,’ said the doctor, holding the back of her hand against Ellie’s forehead. ‘Hmm – well …’

‘Please do go on,’ said Ellie eagerly.

‘We have five permanent beds here for the cardiac cases under review and fifteen surgical beds. We are very small and specialist. If the surgery is beyond our capabilities ... that is, requiring highly specialist equipment and a big team of trained staff, then we send patients to Rafe over in London. But I'm sure you will be aware of the cutbacks which have affected the amount of surgery London hospitals can now undertake.’ Ellie was nodding vigorously, aware of how frustrating that must be to a surgeon of Rafe Harland's calibre, having the skills to save lives but forbidden to use them to the utmost because hospital budgets were tight. ‘Then of course there is our cardiac research project, instigated by Rafe, and the paper he's preparing for publication.’

‘But what happens when Rafe – Mr Harland’s not here? I understand he’s here for just a few weeks every summer. You have local surgeons on call?’

‘Indeed we do, and of course Rafe is one of several international specialists who bring their skills to us. They come in their vacations and they give their services free and gratis. Without their help we couldn’t function on such a critical level. We have two American specialists, a French surgeon from Bordeaux. Then there’s a German cardio-thoracic consultant from Munich …’ The Centre Director talked on while Ellie marvelled that a woman surgeon should also be the reverend mother of a small community of nursing nuns. The only other reverend mother Ellie had ever seen was the one who sang
Climb Every Mountain
in the Julie Andrews film. But Dr Flora – probably in her mid sixties as far as Ellie could judge - might be any child's picture of the perfect granny, a print frock under her doctor's coat, white wavy hair framing her attractively plump face. But appearances can be deceptive, and Flora’s keen eye and brisk, kindly air of authority told another tale.

Dr Flora, assessed Ellie contemplatively, was nobody's fool. She knew Mr Harland very well indeed, and her liking and respect for the man and the surgeon was clearly boundless.

‘This is a remarkable place!’

‘You think so?’ beamed Dr Flora, looking at her rapt companion, her head tilted on one side. ‘Come on, let’s finish this tour before Rafe spirits you away.’

With rapt attention she devoured all she was told, drank in everything she was shown, admired the immaculate operating theatre with its stainless steel walls and space-age precision, scrubbed and gleaming and ready for action.

‘I’m the general dogsbody around here,’ explained Dr Flora in bland understatement of her role as chief administrator and surgeon. ‘On Tuesdays I operate with an anaesthetist who comes in from Faro. Dear little man, terrified of Rafe!’ She led Ellie round the Centre buildings, pointing out where the new wing was going to be built on a stretch of land running behind the Centre and abutting the present buildings. ‘The clever stuff, of course, we leave to our visiting cardiac specialists. They do a sterling job training our own surgeons in complex surgery and our long-term aim is to take over and do all the surgery ourselves.’

The two women moved aside to allow a staff nurse wheel a patient down the corridor to be X-rayed. Flora greeted them with cheery words and a pat on the shoulder for the man who looked frail and sick, then turned the warmth of her attention back to Ellie. ‘We have several anaesthetists on call to us – Rafe prefers to work with Lilian who has worked in London and is completely bilingual. I was so sorry to ask them to change their plans the other night.’

Ellie must have looked mystified because Flora went on to explain. ‘My mother had a fall at home in Silves – I expect Rafe told you about that. So I had to ask him to stand in for me at the dinner. I heard they all went back to the Casa afterwards where you looked after them most kindly. Splendid success. Thanks to Rafe our new theatre wing is a certainty.’

Ah, now Ellie understood. Flora was referring to Rafe’s VIP guests. ‘And how is your mother?’ she asked earnestly, pushing away her curiosity about this Lilian with whom Rafe had planned to spend that evening.
None of your business, nosey Ellie Robey
, she scolded herself and asked after the old lady’s progress.

‘Colles fracture. Nothing too serious, but it gave her – and me, I can tell you – a nasty shock.’

‘It must have,’ said Ellie sympathetically, wondering what on earth she would do if anything happened to either of her parents while she was so far away. ‘What a good thing you were able to get to her quickly.’

‘Indeed it’s a blessing. And it wasn’t always so. I spent twenty years out in Africa in the Mission hospitals. You name it, I've coped with it. And not in conditions like you see here, I can promise you. Then when they thought I was getting too old for that sort of thing, the Community recalled me and told me to get myself over here and help set this place up. After all, Ellie, since the days of the early Christian church the religious orders have recognised a clear duty to comfort and relieve the sick.’

‘Of course,’ smiled Ellie. ‘I remember now. The first hospitals were founded by monks, and the first nurses were the "little sisters" of Saint Francis. I did a project on the history of medicine way back in the sixth form.’

‘Excuse me, dear, just a moment.’ Dr Flora turned away to speak to one of the nursing sisters and as Ellie waited near the single-bedded rooms Rafe emerged from the farthest doorway, closing it behind him with particular care and standing there, oblivious to the fact that he was being observed, his head bowed in a moment of contemplation.

For a second or so Ellie didn’t recognise the man with that brutally cropped hair, the head in profile and deep in thought. There was something troubling about seeing him like that and Ellie shivered. Was someone dying there within Room Ten? Beyond even the combined skills of the Centre's medical and surgical staff? A very attractive woman in a white coat and carrying a stethoscope emerged from a patient’s room and interrupted his reverie. As she spoke, she put a hand casually on his sleeve. Rafe listened, looked at his watch, said something in reply and the black-haired doctor smiled up at him. ‘Here’s Rafe,’ said Flora cheerfully,’ just having a word with Lilian. Now, coffee dear. He won’t keep you waiting much longer.’