‘And her treatment?’ Marco pursued as Paige lifted her hand to ring the bell.
She shrugged one shoulder, uncomfortable with admitting that in this respect she’d failed.
‘She’s not receiving any—’ The explanation was cut short by the door opening as far as the safety chain would allow.
‘Hi, Mrs Bevan. It’s Paige and I’ve someone with me, a visiting doctor from Italy. Would you like him to come in or shall I ask him to wait outside?’
‘Not the prince?’ Mrs Bevan responded in a breathless voice. ‘Oh, my, oh, my!’
Paige could hear her fingers scrabbling against the wood, fiddling with the chain as she hurried to unlatch it—apparently anxious to provide a royal welcome.
‘Yes, yes, bring him in. Mabel called on her way back from the centre and told me he was visiting you.’ Mrs Bevan must have freed the chain at last for she flung open the door and all but bowed Marco into the hall. ‘Said he came in such a lovely car and with a courtier and all, she said.’
Marco seemed to accept this evidence of grandeur with equanimity, standing back and indicating that Paige should go ahead, but she was rooted to the top step, praying Mrs Bevan wouldn’t repeat any of the other things Mabel had told her—particularly about Paige being in need of a man.
A light touch on her shoulder propelled her forward—out of touching range—gabbling explanations and excuses no one in their right mind would understand. Not that Mrs Bevan had noticed. Oh, no, she was far too busy gazing in awe at her visitor, standing, her hands clasped in front of her apron, and staring at him as if he’d arrived clad in ermine robes—or whatever princes traditionally clad themselves in—complete with crown and sceptre.
Paige took control of herself and Mrs Bevan. She guided her patient to a chair, indicating to the visitor to take another, then looked around, wondering what she’d done with her bag. Perhaps not quite in control!
Marco guessed what she was seeking and held up the bag he’d carried, amused by her confusion and surprised by the older woman’s reaction to his title. Not that he hadn’t experienced it before. Even at home, where old titles were common, the older people—those who knew—still treated him as something special. But here in egalitarian Australia?
He introduced himself to their hostess and watched as Paige took out a small sphygmomanometer from the bag and wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around Mrs Bevan’s arm.
‘You have a problem with your blood pressure?’ he asked the patient.
‘It’s old age,’ she responded. ‘Everything breaking down, and what does work usually hurts. I guess it will happen even to princes when they get old.’
‘That’s telling you,’ Paige whispered to him, jotting down her findings on a card and tucking the equipment back into the bag. She smiled at her patient. ‘Your blood pressure is fine today, Mrs B. You’ve obviously been taking the tablets. Now, what about exercise? Are you walking in the garden each day?’
Mrs Bevan beamed, first at Paige, then at Marco and said, as proudly as a child revealing a good mark at school, ‘Ten times in the morning and another ten in the afternoon.’
‘That’s grand,’ Paige responded, while Marco considered the bungalow’s size and wondered if twenty might not have been a better target. ‘Perhaps you could build it up to twelve this week. Or do a few quick turns after dinner as well.’
He nodded his head in acknowledgment that their thoughts were in tandem, realising that the nurse was treading very carefully with this particular patient.
While he chatted to Mrs Bevan, Paige checked some small bottles which were lined up on a bench at the end of the room, then turned back to announce they should be on their way.
‘You’ve enough tablets to last until next week, but if you think of anything you need, give me a call,’ she said as she tucked some slips of paper into her pocket. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Then, to Marco’s astonishment, she bent and kissed the wrinkled cheek, before heading towards the door. He followed, so many questions flung up by this routine visit that he hoped the next patient lived a long way down the road.
‘Is she on some form of anti-anxiety medication?’ he asked as they made their way to the gate. ‘Under a psychiatrist? Do you encourage her to go out? Have you used behaviour therapies at all to get her over the initial shock of being out of her own environment? What treatment is considered appropriate over here?’
She must have been surprised by his interest for she stopped abruptly and he ran into her—felt the softness of her body against his chest.
He put a hand on her shoulder to steady them both, told himself it was the softness of her jacket he’d felt, and why should he notice anyway? All women had soft bodies. She dodged away from his hand and half turned to face him.
‘The answer to all but the last of your questions is no. Yes, all of those treatments are used here, but you have to remember that most people suffering from anxiety disorders are young, with the mean onset in the early twenties. The seriousness of the disorder necessitates drugs for many people and psychiatrists use the often harsh treatment judged necessary to alter behaviour because of a patient’s youth and the fact that he or she should have a long and productive life ahead of them. Even then many refuse treatment, being unable to admit to illness by taking drugs or visiting a specialist.’
He considered this and shook his head.
‘So Mrs Bevan’s age means you don’t bother treating her?’ he demanded, angry for the gentle old woman who’d reminded him of his grandmother.
Paige waved a hand, indicating they should walk and talk, and he wondered if she, like he, thought better when her body was in motion. Following a pace behind her through the gate, his mind clipped the two words together in a different frame and decided her body in motion was a most attractive sight. In fact, the impression of slimness was misleading as she undoubtedly had curves in all the right places. Plump curve of hips tapering into a tiny waist he could perhaps span with his hands—not that he could see her waist under the bulky jacket, but he’d noticed earlier—
‘Pardon?’
She turned her head and smiled at him—that warm and genuine smile he’d observed and admired earlier.
‘I’ve just produced a perfect explanation for not treating Mrs Bevan—or at least treating her in a way that’s beyond the parameters of so-called normal therapy—and you haven’t heard a word of it. Are you worrying about Lucia?’
Her brows, a darker gold than her hair, twitched together, and when he answered with a slight negative movement of his head she provided him with another excuse for his inattention.
‘You must be tired,’ she said. ‘And here I am dragging you all over town, visiting the elderly.’
He shook his head again, denying tiredness but glad he didn’t have to explain the real cause of his distraction.
She walked on and he caught up with her.
‘I was saying we’ve tackled Mrs Bevan differently, encouraging her to have people in, to accept visitors. At first it was difficult as her husband’s illness had isolated her, but as you saw today even a stranger didn’t upset her unduly. And I’ve got her exercising in the yard. She’s keen on birds, and always knows where the nests are in her garden. I live in hope that one day a bird will tempt her beyond the gate, and when she’s done it once, it might become easier.’
‘And have you constructed the nest of the bird beyond her boundary yet and trained the bird to fly above her towards the gate?’
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