‘How long does that take?’ She could see a dozen potential stories forming in her head.
Now he was starting to look annoyed. ‘The ferry takes around an hour. The transfer from Ardrossan—where the ferry docks—and the local hospital takes around thirty minutes.’
‘Wow, that could be dangerous.’
His eyes flashed. ‘Not at all. We assess all our patients and make sure they are fit for the transfer before they are sent.’
‘What about people needing surgeries or baby emergencies?’ She knew there was another word for that but just couldn’t think of it.
‘Most surgeries are pre-planned and our patients will have made arrangements to go to the mainland. All pregnant women on the island are assessed by both an obstetrician and their midwife. We’ve had a number of planned home deliveries on the island. Any woman who has a history that would give cause for concern for her, or for her baby, has arrangements made for admission to the mainland hospital to ensure the equipment and staff required are there for her delivery. We haven’t had any problems.’
Dull. This place was sounding decidedly dull. All the good stuff—the interesting stuff—got sent to the mainland. But there were a hundred documentary-style shows that covered A and E departments. How on earth was she going to make this show interesting enough for people to keep watching?
She licked her lips and turned to the computer on top of Rhuaridh’s case note trolley. ‘So, Dr Gillespie, let’s go back. Can you tell us about the first patient we’ll be seeing?’
She had to keep this moving. Interesting footage seemed to be slipping through her fingers like grains of sand on the cold beach outside. Please let this get better.
* * *
There was not a single thing about this that he liked. Her American accent was beginning to grate on him. ‘Don’t mumble’ she’d had the cheek to say to him. He’d never mumbled in his life. At least, he didn’t think that he had.
That spotlight had been on him as he’d done the ward round in the cottage hospital. Normally it would have taken half an hour, but her incessant questions had slowed him down more than he’d liked.
She’d kept stopping and talking in a quiet voice to her cameraman and that had irritated him probably a whole lot more than it should have.
He was almost chanting the words in his head. One more day. One more day.
One of the nurses from the ward came and found him. ‘Rhuaridh, there’s been a message left to remind you about your home visit.’
‘Darn it.’ John Henderson. He still hadn’t managed to drop in on him. He shook his head and grabbed his jacket and case.
‘What? Where are you going?’ Kristie wrinkled her nose. ‘What’s a home visit anyway?’
He stared at the woman standing under his nose who was almost blocking his way to the exit. He felt guilty. He’d meant to visit John before he came here, but this filming thing had distracted him in a way he hadn’t been before.
He snapped, ‘It’s when you visit someone—at home.’ He couldn’t help the way he said the words. What on earth else could a home visit be?
Kristie only looked insulted for a few seconds. ‘You actually do that here?’
Of course. She was from the US. It was a totally different healthcare system. They generally saw a specialist for everything. Doctors like him—general practitioners who occasionally visited sick patients at home—were unheard of.
‘Of course.’ He elbowed past her and moved out to his car.
‘Let’s go,’ he heard her squeak to her colleague, and within a few seconds he heard their feet thudding behind him.
He spun around and held up his hand. ‘You can’t come.’
She tilted her chin upwards obstinately. ‘We can.’ She turned her notes towards him. ‘John Henderson, he’s on the list of patients that granted permission for us to film.’
Of course. Pam had already put a system in place to keep track of all this.
He couldn’t really say no—no matter how much he wanted to. He shook his head, resigned to his fate.
‘Okay, get in the car but we need to go now.’
They piled into the back of his car and he set off towards the farm where John Henderson lived.