A World Away From Home

Further chapters of our compelling serial

There are no more babies, Miss Clare? We are finished for this morning?” The Syrian woman Haya’s soft voice pulled Clare from her reverie. She’d been thinking about little Rafiq whom she’d spotted fleetingly this morning, throwing up a cloud of sand with his football. She’d called “hello” to him, but he had either not heard her or chosen not to hear her, she wasn’t sure which.

Clare still felt a sense of unease at the dismissive manner in which Khalid, who’d welcomed her to the camp, had spoken of the boy a few days ago. How their conversation had shifted from warm and friendly to cool and offhand almost instantaneously. How swiftly she’d seen a shift in the man she’d begun to admire – and how that had unsettled her, despite her better judgment.

She wasn’t in this dusty refugee camp in Jordan to become attached to anyone; she was here to work. Still, being away from home somewhere so different, so strange, at times unsettled her, although luckily she was being kept so busy there was little time for reflection.

During a quiet moment, his comments niggled Clare. Khalid had known immediately who she was speaking about when she’d mentioned the boy who supported Manchester United, despite the fact that probably they were the most favoured team in the camp.

Clare was settling into her role, making a difference to the lives of the people in the camps. When you treated them day-to-day it was possible to see them, not as a homogenous group of people displaced from their homes, but as individuals. People. Doctors, nurses, teachers, mechanics. “Miss Clare?” Haya again – gentle, kind Haya, still trying to get her attention.

“Sorry, Haya – yes, that is all the babies weighed for today. Your work is done.” Clare smiled. “Shall we have lunch together?”

Haya nodded and smiled, picking up her sleeping baby, Sara, who snuffled and rubbed her face. Her son was playing outside with a gang of children.

Even in the few days Clare had been watching out for Haya and her baby, things had changed. The baby was more content, sleeping more, bright and alert when she was awake.

In turn, the worry lines on Haya’s face were easing. Clare knew she was taking more care of herself, eating regular meals, because they often ate together. Haya was keen to improve her language skills, and in particular her English.

“One day I hope to visit you in England, Miss Clare,” she said. “Just call me Clare.” “Thank you, Miss Clare.” Haya spoke haltingly as they walked towards the food tent, easing their way through the camp past groups of men chatting, women chiding children, girls playing in the sand.

“My husband, Salim – he would like to go to England, to see Buckingham Palace. Where your queen lives.”

Haya spoke often of her husband and her family, left behind in her war-torn home. Salim’s parents had been too elderly, too frail to travel and make their escape. Instead they faced the fear of daily bombardment, their city unrecognisable from the bustling town it had once been.

Listening to Haya, and the other people living in tents on the baking, sand-covered hillside made Clare think how different, by the sheer chance of birth, her own life had been.

There was Dom, the man she had

Haya’s VOICE was tight and URGENT, her TUG on Clare’s arm DEMANDING

loved for many years now – loved still, she thought. They’d held hands, eyes closed when waiting to find out the results of their degrees, both ultimately delighted with the outcome, pleased that their efforts had borne fruit and they could move onto the next stage in their lives together. At that moment, there had been no doubt that their future was as a couple.

Only now they weren’t together. He was back home, and she was here. He was building his reputation as a photographer, she was tending people displaced from their homeland, living adrift on a hillside.

She recalled his final goodbye at the airport. And she rubbed her eyes as she remembered him turning his back on her and walking away.

There must be sand in her eye. An occupational hazard.

His ultimatum when she’d told him of the posting had been firm for a man usually so gentle and unassuming.

“I’ll be waiting for you if you do one stint, then come home.”

Would she do only one stint? There was Haya and Sara and all the women who were struggling to ensure their babies thrived in such demanding conditions. There was Rafiq, the little footballer, whose elusiveness concerned her.

And then there was Khalid. She was struggling to make sense of her feelings for the man who veered between caring and kind and offhand and dismissive.

Miss Clare, Miss Clare, please, we must help.” This time Haya’s voice was tight and urgent, her repeated tug on Clare’s arm more demanding.

“Huna,” a young man called and beckoned. Over here.

Haya led Clare to a small group of men surrounding a figure lying in the recovery position on the floor. Atleastsomeone had the sense to do that, she thought. They were speaking loudly in Arabic and gesticulating wildly, especially one young man, who was in tears. “Abi, Abi,” he cried. My father. Clare bent down to the prone figure, a man who appeared to be in his fifties. He was unresponsive. She felt for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there. There was hope. Overhearing an exchange between Haya and the young man, she picked up the odd word or two. Her Arabic was improving, but it was far from perfect yet.

“His father is – how do you say in English?”

“Diabetic?” Clare was sure she had heard the word buried among the many others being shouted.

“Yes – diabetic.” Haya nodded her reply. “He does not always take his medication. And also his medication does not always arrive.”

“He needs fluids and insulin. And soon.” Clare began issuing orders. A group of young men were sent for a stretcher, and with great care they lifted the still-unconscious man onto the canvas and took him to the medical tent accompanied by Clare and Haya. She had handed over baby Sara to a woman she knew en route.

“Who do we have here? Quickly now, I am with another patient.”

Dr Lehrer. Clare’s heart sank. Her voice was peremptory, as per usual. She found the Swiss doctor remote and offhand. Not approachable or friendly like her friend Hélène and other medical staff.

Clare spoke quickly but clearly, telling the doctor what she had observed.

“I think we need a drip immediately, and insulin.”

Dr Lehrer paused, her face giving nothing away. Clare had no idea if the doctor was annoyed that a mere nurse was, apparently, giving orders.

She felt no better when Dr Lehrer turned and marched away.

Clare turned to the man, checking his vital signs. He needed help quickly.

“Here, a drip. That’s your job. I’ll administer the insulin.”

Dr Lehrer had returned with the equipment they needed.

They moved together swiftly, putting everything in place.

“Perfect,” the doctor told Clare once they were done. “You have done really well. You are an excellent nurse.”

Clare almost stopped in her tracks. Praise from Dr Lehrer was praise indeed.

She glanced round in disbelief at