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She pulled back one of the curtains. ‘What is that?’ She couldn’t help but ask.
Philippe was sitting next to an elderly local man whose shirt was open. Philippe had a stethoscope pressed to the man’s chest and both were singing along and laughing. Philippe turned towards her. ‘That,’ he said in mock horror, ‘is Frank Sinatra. You mean you didn’t recognise it?’ He tutted and shook his head. ‘Youngsters these days, Rahim. They don’t recognise one of the greats when they hear it.’
Arissa couldn’t help the smile on her face. ‘Oh, I recognise the greats, but no one could recognise that,’ she said.
Rahim erupted in laughter, than started coughing and spluttering. Philippe shot her a look and stood up, moving to the nearby sink to wash his hands. ‘It looks like Rahim has another chest infection. We were trying singing to see if it could help his lung capacity.’
He was choosing his words carefully. It was clear that Rahim, like many of the people around here, had chronic obstructive airways disease. His colour was poor and his breathing rapid. Any delay in treatment could end up in a hospital admission. Philippe moved over to the medicine cabinet. ‘I’m going to dispense some antibiotics for Rahim to take away with him, so we can get him started on treatment without delay.’
She liked the way he was obviously trying to put the man at ease.
Now she really did smile. He knew that for a patient like Rahim, writing a prescription that would have to be taken to a pharmacy and dispensed wasn’t the way to go. More often than not, patients like Rahim wouldn’t fill their prescriptions. Some might assume it could be down to cost—and it could be, but not always. Other times some of the older patients didn’t want to be a nuisance, or forgot to fill their prescriptions. There was a whole variety of reasons. But Philippe was doing exactly what she would have done—making sure the medicine was in the hands of the patient who required it.
The very fact that she didn’t have to explain any of this to Philippe made her wonder about him a little bit more.
She gave him a nod and let him finish, moving on to the next patient.
A few hours later he appeared behind her, an empty coffee cup in his hand. ‘Okay, I’ve snagged a cup. But where do we find the coffee?’
She glanced out at the waiting room that had finally quietened after her morning’s immunisation clinic.
She gestured with her head. ‘Come on. I’ll take you to the magic.’
She led him through to the small kitchen at the back of the clinic, switched on the percolator and flicked open the nearest cupboard, which was stocked from top to bottom with a variety of coffee.
Philippe blinked, then laughed. He lifted his hand. ‘What is it? Did some kind of rep come here and give you his whole supply?’
Arissa folded her arms and leaned against the wall, watching him for a few moments. ‘Maybe. Or maybe it’s just a rule that every doctor that works here has to buy their favourite kind of coffee before they leave.’
His eyes widened. ‘Exactly how many doctors have you had working here?’
She gave a sigh. ‘A lot. There are no permanent doctors here. Haven’t been for years.’
He frowned as he pulled one of the packets of coffee from the cupboard, gave it a quick appreciative sniff and loaded it into the machine. ‘So how on earth do you keep things running?’
She shook her head as she grabbed another mug. ‘I don’t. We...’ she held out her hands ‘...the community does. I commit all my holidays to working here.’
He stared at her for a few seconds. ‘All of your holidays?’
She nodded. ‘Sure. Have done for the last five years. Temur Sapora is home. This is where I’d come for my holidays anyway—so why not come here and work? We have lots of volunteers. Though I have to admit that the wound-healing project has definitely been a boost.’
The smell of coffee started to fill the room. ‘So, you’re telling me that this whole clinic is staffed by volunteers?’
She smiled. ‘Yes, and no. There are three permanent nursing staff and two administrators. They’re actually the most important people of all—they handle the rota.’
