‘We do what we can,’ she said simply. Then she shrugged. ‘I know you don’t like it but it’s the way it is. If there’s a major problem, if it’s clear that a leg’s going to end up shorter than the other or not heal at all, then I’ll push hard, and because they know I don’t push unless it’s imperative, usually they’ll agree. But it needs huge persuasion, Grady, so I don’t try unless I think it’s really, really dire.’ She hesitated, giving him a searching glance. ‘So…can you start on the fractures? The elders will stay with you all the time. They have a little English if you speak slowly, and they’ll translate as best they can.’
‘And you?’
‘There’s an old lady I need to see. She’s with the women.’ She hesitated. ‘Just don’t ask me about her, Grady. Can I leave you to the rest?’
‘Sure.’
‘Right.’ But still she hesitated. ‘Grady…please, remember that these people don’t want intervention. No dressings unless they’re really necessary. Same with stitches. Stitches get infected. Scars will become part of the legend of this tsunami. They’ll be shown with pride to grandchildren. So we’re not interested in cosmetic results, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Fine,’ she said, and cast him an uncertain smile. Then a woman called out from the shadows. Morag hesitated, but there was nothing left to say. She was being forced to trust him, he thought, watching her face, and he knew that it was a weird sensation.
He watched in silence as she collected her doctor’s bag and strode into a mass of palms at the back of the clearing. Leaving him with the shadows fading in and out of the cover of the palms.
Leaving him…confused.
There wasn’t time for confusion, however. He had things to do.
Nargal emerged first from the backdrop of palms. The old man had a child by his side, a little girl of about six or seven. She was holding one arm with the other, and was big-eyed with pain and fear.
Nargal looked almost as terrified.
Morag had persuaded these people to trust him, he thought, and suddenly the responsibility of what he was facing seemed enormous. One bad move and these people would disappear into their shadows, he knew, and then…and then there’d only be Morag who’d be allowed near.
She was desperately alone. This was all he could do for her.
He watched the man and the child walk falteringly across the clearing and he made no move toward them. As they came close he squatted so he was at eye level with the child. He didn’t smile, but kept his eyes focused on her arm.
‘Is it broken?’ he asked, and the old man grunted assent from above.
‘She said…it cracked.’
‘I can help with the pain. If you’ll allow.’
The old man spoke to the child in murmured dialect and the child listened. She hadn’t taken her eyes from Grady.
‘I need to give an injection,’ Grady said softly, and the man interpreted to the child.
The little girl whimpered and backed away a little, but she didn’t run.
‘The injection will hurt a little,’ Grady said. ‘But then it won’t hurt while I examine the arm. I can make sure the arm is straight and I can wrap it tightly so it won’t hurt as much while it heals.’
More interpretation. He repeated himself a couple of times, a word at a time. And then he waited.
Silence.
He was very aware of the shadows. Scores of people watching from the shadows.
He waited, as if he had all the time in the world.
He waited.
Then there was a frightened whisper from the child to the old man and a one-syllable response, before the old man again addressed Reece.
‘She wants that you are friend of Dr Morag. I told her yes.’
Grady nodded gravely. ‘Thank you.’
‘You can give her…injection,’ the old man said. ‘She knows a friend of Morag will not harm her.’
It went against everything Grady had ever been taught. To not X-ray…
He gave an injection of morphine and gently felt the fracture site. Then he held the child’s arms out, measuring reach. He carefully tested each finger, each part of the arm, searching for nerve damage, searching for any sign that the bone had splintered.
It seemed OK. It was probably a greenstick fracture, but not to take an X-ray…
He had no choice.
He splinted the arm still and carefully strapped the arm to keep it immobile.
A cast would be better, but he couldn’t apply plaster here. Besides, the arm was badly scratched and he was acutely aware of Morag’s warning about infection. If there was infection under a cast and there weren’t constant checks, she could well lose the arm.
Enough. He fashioned a sling and finally dared a smile at the little girl.
‘You’re very brave.’
The old man translated and the little girl’s face broke into a grin. And what a grin! It was like the sun had suddenly come out.
‘Than’ you,’ she whispered and Grady felt his gut give a solid wrench-a wrench he hadn’t known he was capable of feeling.
‘You’re welcome.’ He smiled at her, and then looked up to find his interpreter was also smiling. ‘She must keep this on for six weeks. I’ll come and check it.’
‘Six weeks?’ the old man repeated, and Grady nodded.
‘She will keep it with care. But…Morag will check it. Not you.’
Right. Of course. This was Morag’s place.
Not his.
After that he saw an ankle that he hoped-where was the X-ray?-was just sprained. Then there were two nasty cuts that needed careful cleaning and debridement. Amazingly, he was able to convince the children to accept tetanus shots and an initial shot of antibiotics. They’d need a ten-day course, but he left it to Morag to explain about the medication. Hell, if he explained it wrong…
He didn’t stitch either of the cuts. He pulled them together with steri-strips as best he could, and told his interpreter that the strips could come off after a week. He hoped like hell that Morag would approve.
‘How’s it going?’ She was suddenly behind him and he almost jumped. She was like a cat, moving among her own with a sureness that had him disconcerted.
‘Fine,’ he managed. ‘Can you explain a course of antibiotics for these kids?’
‘I can do that. One of the women’s very good at dispensing medication. Nargal will explain it for me.’
‘Nargal can’t do it himself?’
‘The tablets are food. That’s women’s work. Asking Nargal to make sure a child has a tablet twice a day would de-mean him.’
‘I see.’ He adjusted the dressing and smiled a farewell to the little boy, and looked uncertainly at Morag. He felt all of about six, asking, ‘Please miss, have I done OK?’
‘I had to use dressings,’ he confessed.
‘Sure you did,’ she said, and then grinned. ‘Heck, you look like I’m about to slap you.’
‘You’re not?’
‘Argrel-the little boy with the first cut you treated-came to show his mother his bandage while I was with the women. He said the big doctor-I guess that’s you-said he couldn’t get it wet for three days. He explained to his mother that he wasn’t allowed to get it dirty and in three days he could take the dressing off and he’d have a wonderful man scar.’ Her smile widened. ‘You certainly know the way to a small boy’s heart.’
‘Promising him scars.’
‘Out here they’re better than a jelly bean.’
They were smiling at each other-like fools. Which was really stupid.
‘What next?’ he asked.
