I know there’s one onboard because I remember Jared rabbiting on about regulations requiring one, and I end up clattering around the van like a demented crab, sidestepping binbags, pulling open drawers and cupboards and sticking my hands into cubby holes. There are so many nooks and crannies but the first aid kid doesn’t appear to be in any of them.
‘Did you decide to visit Yorkshire and spontaneously buy a campervan on the way?’ my injured guest asks.
I hoped I was playing my frantic hunt for the first aid kit off casually, but my act is clearly not working. ‘Something like that,’ I mutter, trying the sliding door underneath the cabin bed.
‘It’s like you’ve never been in here before, and you’ve certainly never parked the thing before.’
‘That’s not true, Ihaveparked it,’ I protest. I parked it outside the service station, and I stopped outside the old cottage too. I’ve parked it exactly three times and only nearly murdered someoneonce. It’s not acompletelybad ratio.
The noise he makes suggests that he doesn’t believe me. ‘Try that door behind the bed, that’s where people usually keep car stuff.’
I glance at him and then scramble up the ladder to the bed and lean across the mattress that’s close to the roof – Jared’s idea to create extra storage space. There’s a tall door in the campervan wall that would be easier to access from the back doors, but from inside, I have to reach down to open it, and finally, finally, there’s the green bag with the white cross on it, wedged behind a bottle of screenwash and some jump leads. It’s not exactly reassuring that a complete stranger knows more about my campervan than I do.
‘What’s your name?’ the stranger asks as I wriggle back across the mattress and slip-slide off the ladder.
‘Dolly Lymford.’ If I wasn’t so distracted, maybe I’d have thought of giving myself a fake name, but it’s too late now.
‘After Ms Parton or the cloned sheep?’
A scoff of a laugh escapes. ‘Has anyoneeverbeen named after a cloned sheep?’
‘You never know.’ His laugh sounds surprisingly good-natured for someone who might be about to lose his lower leg.
‘My parents danced to “I Will Always Love You” on their first date. They got ahead of themselves. They did not, in fact, always love each other. They ended up not liking each other very much at all.’ I realise what I’m saying and wonder why I overshared that with someone I met ten minutes ago. ‘You?’
‘Reece Sterling. R-double e-c-e. Not like the Welsh spelling, or the chocolate brand, or the star ofLegally Blonde.’
It sounds like an introduction he’s rattled off many times. ‘Do you always introduce yourself like that?’
‘Only when I’m about to pass out from blood loss.’
I hope he’s joking as I kneel down in front of the table with the first aid kit and pull on a pair of disposable gloves from inside it.
‘I can do it.’ He leans forward and takes one look at his leg and quickly reconsiders. He leans back and turns his head deliberately away, and that guilt hits me again. He must be in agony and he’s clearly not feeling good, and I’m responsible.
‘I’ll do it, it’s my fault. You just try to stay conscious and not throw up all over the van.’
He laughs despite himself, although his face has gone a shade of green that makes it a distinct possibility.
‘Your trousers are ruined anyway, can I cut the material off?’
He nods without looking and I take a deep breath and get to work, trying to channel Grandma’s no-nonsense approach to a crisis and avoid my usual flapping. I use scissors from the first aid kit to cut his trousers off at the knee and get my first proper look at the damage.
It’s a big gash, deep in places, but the blood pumping out has slowed since he got it elevated. It makes me feel nauseous, the sight of the wound and the thought of how much worse thiscouldhave been, and I clamp the inside of my cheek between my teeth and get on with it. This is my fault and the least I can do now is sort out the wound without being a wimp at the sight of blood.
It seems to be free of splinters, but I get a wound wash out of the first aid bag and use it to flush it out, then pat it dry and spray it with wound sanitiser, murmuring an apology every time he winces or sucks air in through his gritted teeth, still looking very deliberately in the other direction. When that’s starting to dry, I open a sterile pad to cover the injury and hold it in place by wrapping a bandage around his leg. But I know nothing about first aid, and I’m pretty sure it’s deep enough that it should be seen by a doctor. ‘I think it’s going to need stitches. There must be a hospital nearby, I can take you?’
‘Nooooo.’ He elongates the word like it’s the worst idea he’s ever heard and shakes his head vigorously. ‘Ihatehospitals. It would have to be a life-or-death situation for me to need a hospital. Does that look life-or-death to you?’
‘Well…’ I say hesitantly. ‘Wounds can get infected. There could be splinte?—’
‘Pfft.’ He cuts off my waffling and finally looks down at the leg now the injury is fully covered. ‘It’ll be fine. It’s just a scratch.’
‘Scratches don’t bleed like that.’ I half expect red to come seeping through the bandage at any moment. ‘At the very least, we can reassess in the morning. If it looks evenslightlyinfected, I’m driving you to the nearest hospital, and that’s that.’
He raises an eyebrow and doesn’t otherwise comment, but I’m having visions of sepsis and leg amputations or worse, and if I have to get him to a hospital then I will do, no matter how much of a fight he puts up.
‘You’re very calm about this. Most people would be threatening to sue the stuffing out of me.’
