And this timetable? Twenty minutes per visit, precisely enough travel time, without even fifteen minutes for sketching—much less eating lunch. All the way to Gorey to see...
Ivy paused in the kitchen door. “Didn’t you ask these three patients in Gorey to make appointments here in the surgery?”
“I couldn’t possibly.” Fern bustled about the kitchen. “One is the wife of a jurat. She’s far too important.”
Ivy forced herself to breathe, to sort her thoughts into words. “She isn’t an invalid, and I often see her in town.”
Fern closed a cabinet and gave Ivy a pointed look. “Dad never refused a request for a home visit.”
Dad had plenty of petrol. “I told you to change my timetables and to ask these patients to come to town. You haven’t done so.”
Fern curled her upper lip. “How disrespectful of you. Dad would be appalled.”
Why couldn’t Ivy take her words back into her mouth? Restore peace?
But why should she take back truthful words, gently spoken?
Because she wanted to return to the way things once were, when she’d leaned on Fern, leaned on Dad.
But to lean on God? What would the Lord have her do? Wouldn’t he want what was best for the patients—not for their convenience but for their health and peace of mind? If Ivy’s own health and peace of mind suffered, her patients would suffer too.
“Ivy!” Fern stood in front of her, shaking a lunch basket. “You’re daydreaming again.”
Ivy stared at her sister and stretched herself tall and straight. “I love you, and I respect you, but you need to respect me too. I will see the patients in Gorey today, but whilst I’m away, please ring the patients I mentioned before and redo tomorrow’s timetable as we discussed.”
“Discussed?” Flinty sparks flashed in Fern’s eyes. “We discussed nothing. You laid out orders as if I were your servant.”
“Please. I need you to—”
“Yes. You need me.” Fern shoved the basket into Ivy’s hand. “Don’t forget that.”
“We need each other. Without you, I can’t practice medicine. But without me, there would be no practice at all.”
Fern dropped a curtsy. “Yes, Your Highness. I’ll return to scrubbing the scullery.” She stormed out of the room.
Ivy groaned and braced her shoulder against the doorjamb. Leaning on the Lord might be right, but it was far more difficult.
Overdale Isolation Hospital
Tuesday, December 22, 1942
Ivy reviewed Aunt Opal’s chart at Overdale Isolation Hospital with Dr. Noel McKinstry, Jersey’s jovial Medical Officer of Health. “When can she be discharged, Dr. McKinstry? Before Christmas?”
“Perhaps. She’s making excellent progress,” Dr. McKinstry said in his Irish accent. “Thank goodness you made the diagnosis so early.”
“Are you talking about me, Doctors?” Although thin, Aunt Opal’s voice no longer rasped.
Ivy smiled at her aunt. “It’s called consultation.”
“Gossip.”
Ivy smiled to see her aunt’s sense of humor returning. For over a dozen islanders, diphtheria had led to a miserable death. “Dr. McKinstry and I are deciding when to send you home and bring relief to these poor nursing sisters.”
A nursing sister in her crisp white apron pushed a cart down the aisle of the crowded ward. “We all adore Mrs. Jouny.”
Even so, the nursing sisters were working horrific hours during the epidemic—which was worsening in the damp weather.
Dr. McKinstry returned the chart to its hook on the footboard. “A few more days, Mrs. Jouny. Good day, Dr. Picot.” He moved to the patient in the next bed.
