Forbidden To The Playboy Surgeon. Fiona Lowe

foliage of century-old oaks and elms. It was a far cry from the dusty, rock-hard and sun-cracked park where she’d spent her childhood. The only shade to be found at the Gundiwindi playground had been that cast by the people standing next to her.

      Walking briskly, she made her way along what would be a frantically busy road in an hour’s time. Right now though, the street sweepers, bakers, newsagents and baristas were the only people out offering services to a few crazy early birds like herself. Her favourite Italian trattoria had a coffee window and Tony greeted her with a cheery buongiorno as he handed out six lattes, neatly stacked in a cardboard carrier. ‘You bring the sunshine, mia bella.’

      Claire smiled and gave into the irrational zip of delight she allowed herself to feel. She knew the garrulous barista flirted with every female aged two to ninety-two and that his mia bella meant nothing. But as few men ever noticed her, let alone tried to charm her, she accepted and enjoyed his compliments as a lovely way to start her day.

      She bought a pain au chocolat from the bakery and balanced the bag on top of the coffees as she continued to walk towards Paddington Children’s Hospital, or ‘the castle’ as the locals called it. A bright red double-decker bus lumbered past down the narrow road. With her free hand, she grabbed a quick photo of it on her phone and immediately sent it to her brother. He was the proud owner of the Gundiwindi garage and he adored anything with an engine. Whenever Claire saw something he’d delight in, she always sent him a photo. He always replied with either a picture of her nieces and nephews or of her parents.

      Unlike herself, David loved living in the small outback town where they’d both grown up. Good at both cricket and footy, he’d always belonged and thrived and he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. She, on the other hand, had been plotting to leave since she was ten years old, desperate to escape the taunts and bullying of a small-minded town that hovered on the edge of the desert and existence.

      The imposing turrets of the red-brick London hospital now loomed high above her as she approached the old ornate gates. A small group of people rugged up against the post-dawn chill clutched Save Our Hospital and Kids’ Health NOT Wealth signs with gloved hands. Each morning found a different combination of people in attendance. Many were parents of current patients, but hearteningly, there were some who’d been patients themselves many years ago. Together they were united and maintained a peaceful protest presence at the gates, striving to keep alive the hope that something could be done to save the hospital from closure.

      ‘I’ve brought hot coffee,’ Claire called out, holding up the cardboard tray as she did most mornings. Granted, she’d only been working at the castle for a few weeks but the idea of central London losing such a vitally important health-care provider was a terrifying thought. What if the castle had already been closed when Westbourne Primary School caught fire? The thought made her shudder. There would have certainly been deaths. Even with the hospital’s proximity to the school, there’d been far too many close calls. Not everyone was out of the woods yet, including little Ryan Walker.

      The stalwarts at the gate greeted her and her coffees with a cheer. ‘Morning, love.’

      ‘Early again? You still on Aussie time?’ one asked.

      She laughed. ‘I’d be going home after a day’s work if I was.’

      Once she’d distributed the coffees, she ducked through the gates and strode under the decorative brick archway. Behind the beautiful Victorian façade was a modern hospital with state-of-the-art equipment and an experienced and dedicated staff. There were one hundred and fifty years of history here and she was humbled to be a part of it. When she’d received the offer of a chance to train under the tutelage of the world-renowned neurosurgeon, Alistair North, she’d actually squealed in delight, deafening the very proper Englishwoman on the other end of the line.

      ‘Now, now, Ms Mitchell,’ the secretary to the chair of the Royal College of Surgeons had said primly as if overt displays of enthusiasm were frowned upon. Then, without pausing, she’d continued to outline the terms and conditions of the scholarship.

      Claire hadn’t cared about her unrestrained antipodean response. If a girl couldn’t get excited about such an amazing opportunity, when could she? After all, her work was her life and her life was her work, and the scholarship was a chance of a lifetime. At the time, she’d danced down the corridors of Flinders Medical Centre telling everyone from cleaners to consultants that she was going to London.

      Now, as she ran up five flights of stairs, she was almost certain that if she’d known what was in store for her at the castle, she might not have been quite so excited. When she reached the landing with the large painted koala on the ward door, she smiled. Why, when all the other wards were named after northern hemisphere birds and animals, the Brits had chosen an Aussie marsupial for the neurology ward’s logo was a mystery to her but she loved that they had. It made her feel a little less like an alien in what was proving to be a very unexpected foreign land.

      Despite speaking English and having been raised in a country where the Union Jack still sat in the corner of the flag, Londoners were different. The brilliant Alistair North was extremely different, although not in the often restrained and polite British way. She’d been fortunate to work with talented neurosurgeons in Australia and she understood that brilliance was often accompanied by quirks. But Mr North had taken quirk and magnified it by the power of ten. All of it left her struggling to convince herself she’d done the right thing in accepting the scholarship.

      Stepping into the bright and cheery ward, she noticed with a start that the nurses’ station was empty. Surely she wasn’t late? Her mouth dried as she spun around to check the large wall clock. The bright, red and yellow clock hands pointed to big blue numbers and they instantly reassured her. She gave a little laugh that contained both relief and irony. Of course she wasn’t late—she was never late and today she was even earlier than usual. Preparation and attention to detail was as much a part of her as breathing. It had been that way since the fateful day in grade five when her small childhood world had suddenly turned on her.

      Assuming the nurses to be busy with their end-of-shift tasks, she slid into an office chair and logged on to the computer. She always read her patients’ overnight reports before rounds. It was better to take the extra time, learn what had happened and to have a well thought out plan than to be caught short. Just the thought of being put on the spot with the critical eyes of the medical students and junior house officers fixed upon her made her breath come faster.

      The ward cared for children with a variety of neurological, craniofacial and central nervous system disorders, including those that required surgery. Although Mr North performed many different operations, his passion was the surgical treatment of focal epilepsy. It was the reason she’d fought so hard to win the scholarship and work with him, but as her brother often said in his laconic and understated tone after everything had gone pear-shaped, ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Right now she was second-guessing her good idea.

      While she read the reports, the daytime nursing staff drifted in, busy chatting, and the medical students soon followed. Finally, the consistently late junior house officer, Andrew Bailey, arrived breathless and with his white coattails flapping. He came to a sudden halt and glanced around, his expression stunned. ‘I still beat him?’

      Claire, who’d just read little Ryan Walker’s ‘no change’ report, stood with a sigh. ‘You still beat him.’

      He grinned. ‘I must tell my father that my inability to be on time makes me a natural neurosurgeon.’

      ‘Perhaps that’s my problem,’ Claire muttered as she checked her phone for a message or a missed call from the exuberantly talented consultant surgeon who had no concept of time or workplace protocol. Nope, no messages or voicemail. She automatically checked the admissions board, but if Mr Alistair North were running late because of an emergency admission, she’d have been the one hauled out of bed to deal with it.

      ‘I heard while you and I were slaving away here last night, he was holding court over at the Frog and Peach,’ Andrew said with a conspiratorial yet reverent tone.

      ‘That doesn’t automatically mean he had a late