‘We are as careful as we can be. Most of those sharing are siblings with the same condition.’
‘Surely not those with HIV or AIDS?’
‘Actually, contrary to popular belief, it is these patients who need to be protected from infection and not the other way around. After all, it is their immune systems that are compromised, rendering them vulnerable to every infection and germ around,’ Greg told Kirsty. He turned to the nursing sister who was accompanying them. ‘Isn’t that right, Sister?’
The nursing sister shrugged her shoulders. ‘Too many with the disease. We try to take special care but…’ The shake of her head told much without words. It had been a fact of life for so long that it was difficult, if not impossible, not to become desensitised.
‘Come on, let’s get you fed and then, if you’re still up for it, you can come and help me in Outpatients. Although it’s Sunday, we’ll have a full clinic. Days of the week have no meaning out here. Most of them will have walked for days just to get here and I don’t like to keep them waiting any longer than necessary. I’ve eaten…’ he glanced at his watch ‘…but I’ve time for a quick cup of coffee, so I’ll show you where the staff dining room is then leave you to it. The other staff will probably be there, except for the Campbells who tend to eat breakfast in their own house.’
When they entered the dining room she was pleased to find Jenny there if no one else.
‘Jenny will show you to Outpatients when you’re ready. Take your time,’ Greg said, and after a quick gulp of coffee left the two women to it.
‘Does he ever slow down?’ Kirsty asked, looking at Greg’s retreating back.
‘Not really,’ Jenny acknowledged. ‘The man is a human dynamo. I can’t remember the last time he took a day off. The rest of us are more human: he insists we take a couple of days at least every third week.’ She eyed Kirsty’s thin frame thoughtfully. ‘Don’t worry, no one will expect you to work these hours, dear.’
‘I’ll do my share,’ Kirsty said. ‘I’m stronger than I look.’ She stirred the lumpy porridge thoughtfully. ‘Maybe Greg works too hard,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘Sometimes he seems a little…well, abrupt. Or is it just me? Have I done something wrong?’
‘Oh, don’t mind Greg. His bark is worse than his bite. He’s a real softy really. As you’ll find out.’
‘Softy’ was the last word Kirsty would have used to describe Greg. ‘What happened to him?’ she asked, curious to know more about this man she was to work with over the coming months.
‘You mean his face? The scars? I hardly notice them any more.’ Jenny hesitated for a moment before seeming to make up her mind. ‘Oh, well, you’ll find out sooner rather than later anyway. It’s impossible to keep secrets in a community of this size. He got them trying to rescue his wife and child from their burning house. They were on their own, just before Christmas—five years last Christmas, in fact. He had been called to the hospital—some emergency I expect. He arrived home to find his house in flames and the fire brigade battling to get it under control. His wife and daughter were still inside. Greg tried to get to them even though the firemen had already failed. They couldn’t hold him back. He went in and brought them out. But it was too late. They had both died from smoke inhalation. Apparently the fire started from the Christmas-tree lights. He was devastated. They were his whole world. I don’t think he has ever come to terms with the loss—I’m not sure that one does.’
Kirsty was stricken. Memories of her own tragedy came flooding back. Although fifteen years had passed, there wasn’t a day when she didn’t think of her mother or Pamela.
Jenny shook her head sorrowfully, unaware of Kirsty’s reaction. ‘I think Greg blames himself, God knows why. There wasn’t anything anybody could have done. The poor man was in hospital himself for weeks. Once he was discharged he left Cape Town. I expect he couldn’t bear to stay anywhere near the place where they had been so happy. He came here and has been here ever since. He works so hard. It’s as if he is trying to exorcise his demons through sheer hard work. He never talks about it or them, and if I were you, I wouldn’t ever raise the topic. I tried once and got my head bitten off.’
‘How awful.’ Kirsty blinked away the tears that threatened to surface. No wonder he was brusque. Now she knew, she would have to be more sympathetic.
‘He still wears his wedding ring,’ she said.
‘You noticed, then?’ Jenny cast a mischievous look at Kirsty. ‘I wouldn’t get any ideas in that direction. There has been many a young doctor and nurse who has tried to offer Greg comfort, but while he doesn’t seem adverse to the odd casual fling, I doubt somehow that he’ll ever let anyone really get under the barrier of ice he seems to have wrapped around his heart.’
Kirsty felt her cheeks flame at the implication. ‘I can assure you,’ she said stiffly, ‘a relationship with anyone is the last thing on my mind.’
Subconsciously she fingered her now bare ring finger. ‘I’ve had enough of men to last me a lifetime.’ She ignored Jenny’s curious look. ‘I’m here to work and to learn. Nothing more.’ She drained her coffee. ‘Sorry.’ Kirsty grimaced, suddenly aghast at the turn the conversation had taken. The kindly doctor in front of her must think her rude. ‘I’m not usually so prickly, it’s just…new place, new people, new challenges. It’ll take me a day or two to settle in, I guess.’
By the time Jenny left Kirsty outside the outpatient clinic, with a hasty apology that she had another Theatre list due to start, there were several patients sitting outside, waiting their turn to be seen. Most of the women still wore traditional dress and despite the intense heat had their children strapped onto their backs with thick blankets. For the most part the children seemed quiet—subdued even. One little boy squatted in the dust, lazily poking at the ground with a stick. When he looked up Kirsty could see that one of his eyes was sticky with what looked like a chronic infection. She tilted his chin—he needed something for his eyes, the sooner the better. She glanced around and spotted a nurse moving between the patients, taking histories and writing notes. Kirsty guessed she was probably assessing who needed to be seen first. Just before Kirsty could grab her attention she noticed a young woman clutching a bundle to her breast. There was something in the woman’s posture—an air of despair—that made Kirsty catch her breath. She moved closer, and gently lowered the blanket to reveal a small, painfully thin child who was making no effort to take the proffered breast of the young mother. The child’s face was so thin it seemed almost skeletal, the skin clinging to the fragile bones of the skull. Flies settled and buzzed around the tiny mouth and closed eyes. For a heart-stopping moment Kirsty thought the child was already dead. She felt for a pulse and was rewarded with a faint flutter beneath her fingertips. The child was still alive, but surely not for long. With one swift movement she lifted the infant up, its tiny frame feeling no heavier than a feather, and rushed into the department. This child couldn’t wait. It needed fluids in the form of a drip straight away or he or she would die.
Ignoring the wails of the young mother, she searched frantically for Greg. She found him crouching in front of an old woman, examining a suppurating sore on her foot.
Greg took one look at Kirsty’s anguished expression and stood up.
‘What is it?’ he asked, bending forward to look at her small bundle. ‘Not another case of marasmus—starvation,’ he said despairingly. ‘OK, bring her into the treatment room and let’s see what we can do. If there is anything we can do.’
Within moments the small child, a girl, was lying on the couch, her mother sitting close by, her eyes flitting from Kirsty to Greg. One of the nurses had joined them and was talking to the mother in rapid Sotho.
‘The child stopped taking the breast two days ago. She’s been sick for over a week. A traditional healer gave her mother some herbs to give her, but when they didn’t help and she stopped taking the breast, the mother decided to bring her