He laughed politely. ‘You mean crush fractures from being stepped on by livestock and strain injuries from overdosing on fencing?’
‘You’ve got the idea.’
While he was talking Ryan watched in wonder as Tara effortlessly multi-tasked, deftly moving her chair into impossibly small spaces while at the same time loading her plate with enough to feed a professional athlete.
She paused a moment and looked at his empty plate.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’ she asked.
‘Oh … er … yes.’ He stuttered his reply, not prepared to admit he’d been too busy watching her. After shouldering his way through the tightly packed occupants of the small lunch room, he began to select food from the abundance before him. By the time he’d filled his plate Tara had moved to the other side of the room and was deep in conversation with a woman he remembered, from her name tag, was a physiotherapist.
Balancing his plate in one hand, he headed in Tara’s direction but was stopped midway by a tap on his shoulder. He turned.
‘Sorry to desert you,’ Rob Whelan said amiably. ‘I wanted to have a word with you about the possibility of you doing some extra consulting—maybe on the Saturday mornings you’re not operating?’
If Ryan’s appointment book was anything to go by, the services of an orthopaedic surgeon in the town were desperately needed, but he was over-committed as it was.
‘I’m sorry, I’m on call at St Joseph’s one weekend in four, and …’ He hesitated, deciding whether Rob, a relative stranger, needed to know about the custody arrangements he had for access to his daughter. As it was, he only saw her one weekend a month, and that time was precious.
If things had been different … He sighed.
‘And?’ Rob raised his eyebrows, as if he sensed Ryan’s discomfort but his curiosity overrode tact. Maybe it was the country way—that everyone had a God-given right to know everyone else’s business. But it wasn’t Ryan’s way.
‘I have regular family commitments on most of my free weekends.’ His use of the word free was somewhat tongue-in-cheek, but the vague comment was all he was prepared to give at the moment. ‘And I think you’ll find things will settle down in a month or two, once I work through the backlog of referrals and start seeing follow-ups.’
Rob rubbed his chin and pressed his mouth into a thin line.
‘I thought as much.’ The older doctor’s grin reappeared. ‘But, you know, if your situation changes the offer stands.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
At that moment Ryan noticed Tara heading off, and he wanted to talk to her. He felt oddly jilted. But he didn’t have any claim on what she did.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I just want to …’ His voice trailed off as one of the other GPs in the practice cornered Rob Whelan and let Ryan off the hook. Ryan dumped his barely touched food onto the table to follow Tara, but she’d vanished in the space of a few seconds. He went in pursuit and found her room off the corridor leading to Reception.
He knocked quietly but there was no response.
Maybe she hadn’t gone back to her room.
He knocked again, a little louder.
‘Tara?’ He opened the door but her spacious office was empty. He glanced around and noted the modifications that had been made because of Tara’s disability. Shelves and cupboards were no higher than shoulder-height. There were two patients’ chairs but a notable absence of a seat for the doctor. The examination couch was also low, and the pedal that raised or lowered the bed had been modified to accommodate hand controls similar to those used for hospital beds. In fact just about everything in the room was reachable from a wheelchair.
He heard movement from behind a door on the far side of the room, and then the sound of a toilet flushing and water running. The door opened, apparently remote-controlled, and Tara wheeled herself into the room, concentrating on the small joystick that controlled the direction of her chair. She obviously hadn’t seen him as he stood quietly by the door.
He cleared his throat and the muscles of Tara’s shoulders visibly jerked. She scowled as blood rose to her neck and coloured her face.
‘What the—?’
‘Sorry, I knocked. Twice.’ He cleared his throat again.
‘Well, did you want to see me for something?’ Tara said after they’d eyeballed each other for what felt like an age but was probably less than twenty seconds.
‘I …’
What was supposed to be a relaxed greeting and a little ice-breaking chat on his first day working in the Keysdale clinic wasn’t working out the way he’d planned.
‘I just wanted to touch base … er … in a professional capacity, of course.’ He smiled uneasily. It sounded ridiculous now. ‘But you disappeared before I had time to say much more than hello just now.’
Tara tilted her head slightly and the steely look in her eyes blocked any access to what she was thinking. Then the expression on her face softened, as if she’d had a change of mind. It was too much to expect she’d had a change of heart.
‘You took me by surprise,’ she said bluntly. ‘I have a fairly rigid routine at work. It means I can use my time here the most efficiently.’ She hesitated.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’
‘You weren’t to know. After all, a good many years have passed since we last saw each other and a lot has happened since then. We’ve both been living our own lives and I’m not the same person I was back then.’
She was unable to hide her quick downward glance. He didn’t blame her for being bitter. Thoughts that had been tumbling through his mind over the last two weeks returned.
If he could change places with her, he would—a hundred times over; if he could turn back the clock; if only things had been different.
He felt totally helpless.
‘Yes.’ It wasn’t often Ryan was lost for words. He was now.
Tara fiddled with some papers on her desk, arranging them in a neat pile. Then she repositioned herself in her chair.
‘Well, while you are here, have you a minute to discuss a patient?’
‘Yes, of course.’
The atmosphere had definitely lightened. The tension of discussing the past evaporated like summer rain falling on hot asphalt.
‘Her name’s Pippa Morgan and I’ve asked her to make an appointment to see you but it could be a couple of weeks down the track. I’ve been told how busy you are, and that you’re booked up for the next month.’
‘Tell me about her.’
Tara swung around to face him.
‘She’s nineteen. Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis was diagnosed when she was six years old. She’s been managed by a rheumatologist from the early stages.’ Tara paused to take a breath. ‘Of course I’ve only known her as a teenager, and she’s been under the care of Liam Taylor for the past two years. She’s had just about every treatment in the book to control her pain and inflammation—non-steroidal anti-inflammatories, Prednisone, Methotrexate, a trial of a DMARD as well as joint injections.’
Ryan had treated many patients with the inflamed and sometimes deformed joints of the chronic rheumatic condition rheumatoid arthritis, but rarely saw children or young adults with the disease. Treatment by surgery was usually kept in reserve for when all else failed. And the bulk of his experience had been with the middle-aged and