by Penny Parkes
‘Yes!’ exclaimed the caller. ‘So weirdly guilty about all sorts of things actually.’
‘Okay, so when you go to the doctor’s, it might be worth asking them to check your Vitamin B12 levels, as well as your iron. Guilt is a recognised symptom of B12 deficiency and can often go hand in hand with anaemia. In fact, to everyone listening, it’s worth remembering that your body’s engine can only run efficiently if you give it the fuel it needs – a balanced diet, plenty of fruit, veg and protein and don’t forget to drink some water.’
‘Good advice in theory there, Dr Graham,’ said Lizzie. ‘And maybe we should have a call-in one day about how to eat well in practice?’
Holly grinned. ‘Good idea. But my general advice still stands – give yourself a good foundation and then a little of what you fancy does you good.’
‘There you have it, folks, your doctor agrees that a glass of wine and a bar of chocolate may actually be good for you.’
Holly laughed. ‘Well, dark chocolate is an excellent source of iron—’
‘And now it’s time for the news and traffic from our partners at Bath Radio,’ Lizzie said, clearly using up the last of a very deep breath. She flicked the switch and the ‘off air’ light pinged on. ‘We’ve got five minutes now if you need a wee. You’re doing great, by the way.’
‘But you’re not feeling so good, are you?’ Holly said. ‘Come and get a breath of fresh air. I need to look in on the twins anyway.’ She stood up and held out a hand, wondering how anyone could spend hours each day in this sweaty, stinky little cubicle.
To Holly’s absolute amazement, the twins were happily sitting in their pram, legs swinging contentedly and gurgly noises a-go-go. ‘Wow, check you out, Elsie – you must be the baby whisperer.’
‘Oh, I just pop a splash of gin in their bottles; it keeps them ever so good,’ laughed Elsie wickedly, clearly enjoying the flash of alarm on Holly’s face. ‘Oh calm down, it’s just the water from your baby bag. It is very hot up here and I thought they might get dehydrated. But they seem to enjoy hearing your voice on the radio. I have to say, darling, you do seem to be a natural.’
‘You might need to be, today,’ said Lizzie with another grimace, bending forward from the waist and clutching her stomach. ‘I do not feel good. Bloody super fancy phaal curry – I’ll kill Will when I get home. Do I care if it’s all the rage, do I heck?’ She winced again and checked her watch. ‘We should really get back in there. If I keep pressing buttons and doing the links, can you keep talking?’
‘Sure, no problem,’ said Holly, looking to Elsie for support. ‘But if you feel this bad, maybe we should cancel the show?’
Lizzie shook her head and the very action made her sweat. ‘Can’t have dead air, Holls. Not on my watch.’
*
By the time they’d taken several more calls, Holly was beginning to wonder whether all was entirely well with Lizzie’s marriage. So far she had managed to persuade an older gentleman that his wife’s sudden interest in tennis meant she was having an affair, a teenager just starting at university that long-distance relationships were doomed to failure – she crossed her fingers that Alice wasn’t listening – and even a nervous young bride that she could relax, safe in the reassurance of knowing that a first marriage was just a good place to learn the ropes.
‘Hey, Lizzie,’ Holly said as they switched through to the travel update again, ‘what’s with you this morning? Are you and Will having a fight?’
Lizzie swallowed another wave of nausea, pressing her hand to her side. ‘He’s just being a stubborn old goat, that’s all. He reckons I’m spending too much time with Connor.’
Holly sighed; she could actually understand Will’s perspective on this one. Connor Danes, although recently widowed, still carried the panache and good looks of the world-class rock star that he was. Despite being old friends with Will, it was Lizzie he had been turning to over the last year as he attempted to rebuild his life, Lizzie he spent hours talking to over a bottle of wine in the afternoon, Lizzie who had become his confidante. Now, he was on a mission to move to Larkford permanently and Lizzie was skittering around the countryside looking at fancy houses with him. It was all totally innocent. Apparently. But still . . .
‘Can you believe he was furious that I went house-hunting with Connor? Just because the newspaper caught a picture and ran some dodgy headline about Connor’s “mystery blonde” doesn’t mean Will has anything to worry about, does it?’ Lizzie said angrily, her face increasingly bearing a sheen of perspiration from each wave of pain. Pain that, to Holly’s eye, seemed to be growing in intensity.
Lizzie shook her head and flicked the switch. ‘And now we’re back with Dr Holly Graham to answer your questions, but first, a little Aqua with “Doctor Jones”.’
The moment Lizzie hit play, her face crumpled. ‘Jesus, Holly, this isn’t right. It hurts like hell.’ Within moments she had comprehensively hurled into the waste bin, as she clutched her abdomen.
Holly yanked off her headphones and was around the desk in moments, laying Lizzie down on its surface and gently palpating her stomach. ‘On a scale of one to ten, how bad are we talking here?’
‘Ten!’ screamed Lizzie, as Holly evidently zeroed in on the problem. ‘It’s been so much worse since I had those antacids,’ she groaned. ‘Even the hot-water bottle didn’t help.’
Holly looked up as Elsie banged on the window, some kind of Morse code that completely eluded her. Well, Elsie was a parent herself, albeit long out of practice; she could certainly deal with the twins for a moment while Holly got Lizzie the help she needed.
‘Okay, Lizzie. So I’m going to call you an ambulance. I think you have acute appendicitis, actually. And there’s a chance that those antacids may have tipped inflammation over into a possible rupture. So keep still, keep breathing and we’ll get you to the hospital.’
She rested a hand on Lizzie’s forehead and was shocked to feel the burning temperature of her skin, even as she dialled 999 and conveyed the necessary information.
‘You’re going to be fine,’ she reassured her friend, as the next song looped on to play in the studio. ‘A little op and a few weeks taking it easy.’
‘Last time I eat spicy curry,’ Lizzie groaned.
Holly managed a smile. ‘It won’t be the curry. It’s more likely all those apple cores you insist on eating.’
‘Waste not, want not,’ breathed Lizzie, aiming for humour but sounding a little delirious.
Holly checked her watch; the ambulance should be due any moment. Elsie hammered on the window again and Holly pulled open the studio door. ‘I’m going to have to get Lizzie to hospital. I think her appendix may have burst.’
‘I know,’ said Elsie, ‘and so does the whole of Larkford!’ She pointed towards the ‘on air’ light; the music may have been playing, but their mics had been live the whole time. ‘The switchboard’s lit up like Christmas. What do you want me to do?’
A banging door downstairs followed by running feet preceded the arrival of the paramedics.
‘No dead air,’ called Lizzie from her supine position on the desk. ‘Not on my watch.’
‘Right,’ said Holly. ‘Elsie, you’re up. Can you handle the show for the last hour?’
‘Handle it?’ said Elsie with aplomb. ‘I have every intention of rocking the airwaves.’
It was some testament to how bad Lizzie was feeling that she didn’t even blink at the suggestion, or attempt to flirt with the dishy paramedics. Even as she was bundled into the ambulance, with Holly wielding the twins in their pram and promising to meet her at the hospital, all Lizzie could keep muttering about was finding the perfect house for Connor. It gave Holly a small insight into Lizzie’s subconscious and, for the first time, she conceded that Will might have every good reason to be worried.
Chapter 5
‘Seven children is definitely too many!’ exclaimed Holly the next morning. Tired, dishevelled, but ultimately relieved, she had spent the night in a state
of anxious unrest waiting for the phone call from Will to confirm that Lizzie’s surgery had gone well. Having Lizzie’s three worried children to stay had been the obvious solution, as Will had rushed to his wife’s bedside. Thank God they’d got her into surgery before the ruptured appendix could lead to peritonitis. It had been all Holly could think about all night long – she knew too much, perhaps, about what could go wrong.
At least now they’d spoken to Will on the phone, Archie, Jack and Lily seemed a little more at ease as well – happy to go to school and continue their day as normal. Getting everyone fed and dressed on time had been a different story.
Elsie laughed. ‘Well, only four of them are keepers . . .’ She lined up five juice boxes, five morning snacks and five packed lunches, rallying in a crisis as always, and Holly made sure everyone was wearing the right uniform and had their trusty book bags packed. She couldn’t be more grateful to Elsie for ditching the Dinner Dance at Sarandon Hall to stay the night with her and lend another pair of hands, as Taffy, seemingly piqued about her radio heroics, had made himself scarce yet again: the ‘mental load’ of running this household increasingly falling on Holly’s shoulders, since she ‘wasn’t working’. Still, there was no time to be riled about that now; there were too many children to be considered.
The hustle to the school gate was farcical in the extreme, as Holly shepherded her own expanded crocodile through the streets of Larkford, Eric weaving between her legs and one strap of her dungarees continually making a break for freedom. ‘Okay,’ she said, crouching down in the playground. ‘Has everybody got everything?’
‘Do I need my sports kit if I’ve got gym first lesson today?’ Lily suddenly wondered, wide-eyed and innocent. Holly didn’t have the heart to remind her that she’d asked them all, repeatedly, at home about their kit requirements. Tears slowly welled in the corners of Lily’s eyes. ‘I don’t want to get a detention!’ she began to wail.
Holly looked around helplessly, wondering if there was time to nip home and get what she needed. ‘You won’t get a detention, darling, I promise,’ she said rashly, distractedly waving off Jack and Archie who dived into the football-hive in the playground with barely a backwards glance. ‘I’ll pop back and get your kit, okay, Lily?’ Ben and Tom hovered beside her in their duffel coats, rather unaccustomed to such a chaotic school drop-off and awaiting their hugs.
Naturally Lottie and Olivia chose that exact moment to kick off, Ben and Tom jostling for Holly’s attention as she crouched down beside the pram to settle them and Lily worked herself up into a snot-bubbling state of drama.
‘It’s tooooo laaaaaate . . .’ she sobbed. ‘You won’t get back in time!’
It wasn’t exactly how Holly had foreseen speaking to the new headmaster at Larkford Primary for the first time, but then nothing about this morning was going the way she’d planned. Deprived of sleep, worried about Lizzie, and doing her best to be upbeat and chirpy for the kids had clearly taken its toll and she was now being singled out for pastoral care!
‘Can I help?’ came Alec French’s deep gravelly voice, as he too crouched down beside their little huddle, his well-worn brogues and soft dark moleskin trousers Holly’s first proper introduction to the man himself. She looked up from settling Olivia and stalled, her decaffeinated brain no match for his piercing blue eyes. His heavy tortoiseshell glasses seemed to be the only thing stopping his fringe from tumbling into his eyes completely and, as he offered her his hand – partly by way of greeting, partly as they both made to stand up at the same time – Holly found it hard to align everything she’d heard about their new headmaster with the man standing here before her.
‘Everything okay?’ he continued. ‘I got an email from Mr Parsons updating me on the situation, so I thought I’d pop out and offer my support. Tricky times all round.’ He bent low and rested a hand on Lily’s shoulder. ‘Don’t cry, munchkin, I have special plans for you today. How would you like to be my special assistant – are you any good at blowing a whistle, I wonder? And I need a little help setting up an obstacle course, for gym class.’
Lily’s tears dried instantly, to be replaced by an almost visible hero worship. No wonder Ben and Tom had been so much happier at school lately, with this switched-on and empathetic head at the helm. It was a far cry from the ramshackle situation last year under the old regime. In fact, listening to him chatting easily with the children about what books they could recommend to him, Holly realised that the only way he could be a more perfect head teacher in her eyes was if he’d been a woman.
Almost as though he was reading her mind, Alec French left the three children chatting about Paddington Bear and turned to hold Holly’s gaze, intrigue and interest in his eyes. Well, maybe not a woman, exactly, Holly reconsidered. From where she was standing, he was doing a pretty good job just being a bloke.
‘I have to say, it’s lovely to meet you in person at last, Dr Graham,’ he said with a smile. ‘Your boys have certainly been keeping me on my toes. It’s actually a delight to have two such enquiring minds in our little school.’
Holly smiled. ‘Well, I hope you still feel that way by the end of term,’ she joked, knowing only too well how many questions her twins could cram into a day and hoping that Alec French’s patience was as long as his eyelashes. She blushed furiously at the very thought. ‘Well, I must get going. Are you sure it’s okay that Lily doesn’t have her sports kit?’
He nodded, his gentle empathy warming his expression. ‘I think you’ve got your hands full enough for one day, don’t you? Send Mrs Parsons our love won’t you, Dr Graham?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And please, do call me Holly.’
‘Holly,’ he said, almost experimentally.
She flustered a little when he made no reciprocal offer, before he leaned in a fraction and dropped his voice. ‘I have to be Mr French at school; I hope you understand. Otherwise, I’m Alec.’
*
Holly was still slightly thrown off her game by the time the school bell had rung and the tide of children and teachers had surged into the old stone school-house. Standing in the playground, suddenly adrift, Holly shook her head to clear her thoughts. Surely she was imagining it? With her hair hurriedly stuffed into a bun, a chunky roll-neck older than the twins and her ancient dungarees hardly making an erotic ensemble, she was not exactly the most alluring of mummies on the school run, but she was quietly convinced he’d been flirting with her. Maybe he had a thing about The Good Life and her Felicity Kendall look was actually ticking his boxes?
‘Oh, Mr French,’ she murmured as she pushed the pram out towards the Market Place. ‘Perhaps we should put you in detention?’
‘Are you talking to yourself, there, Holls?’ called Alice cheerfully, striding across towards her, with Coco trotting neatly at her heels and a coffee in her hand, neat bob swinging with every step.
Holly glanced down at her own hurried attire, noticing for the first time the dribble of raspberry jam on her top and sighed. It was one thing to know you were dropping the ball, it was something else entirely to be spotted doing it.
‘Morning,’ she said, gratefully accepting Alice’s heartfelt hug. ‘You’re looking super bouncy this morning.’
Alice grinned. ‘Well, Jamie Skyped first thing and woke me up, so I had time for a run. Perked me right up – you should join me sometime? You were talking about getting back into it, weren’t you?’ Her heart was in the right place, bless her, thought Holly generously, but it was also obvious she had no idea of the metaphorical marathon that Holly had already run this morning, just to get to this point.
‘I see you’ve met the dishy Mr French?’ Alice continued. ‘He’s perking up the mummies of Larkford a treat.’ She looked around as though imparting state secrets. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many have signed up for the “Fit Over Forty” programme since he arrived.’
‘Whatever it takes, I guess,’ Holly said, mortified that only seconds after meeting Alec French, she too had been considering the Pi
lates class in question.
‘I’ve got to dash,’ Alice said, apologetically checking her watch. ‘I’ve poor Lady Peal coming in early for a chat.’ She sighed, clearly wanting to share but professionalism holding her back. Holly may still be a doctor by name, but until she was back on the roster, it still felt like a breach of confidentiality. ‘I don’t suppose you know someone with money to burn and a fondness for Georgian architecture, do you? It looks like The Big House might be looking for a buyer.’
Holly shook her head. ‘It’s a little rich for my pockets. Gorgeous house, though – I have to confess I thought that one would stay in the family for ever.’
‘I guess you never know, right?’ shrugged Alice. ‘You heading back home for a lovely coffee?’ she asked, having clearly bought into Taffy’s beliefs about how Holly spent her day.
‘Something like that,’ Holly managed with a smile, unwilling – or possibly unable – to burst Alice’s bubble about her idyllic ‘time off’.
‘All right for some!’ Alice laughed as she bounded across the Market Place, Holly’s heart sinking further with every tap of her three-inch heels.
Holly took a breath and determinedly turned the pram away from home, away from the lure of the biscuit tin and the six loads of washing demanding her attention, and along the lane to Blackleigh Farm. She told herself, as she hummed to the girls in the pram, that they were stretching their legs, enjoying the somewhat bracing fresh air, getting a little exercise. But even in her head it sounded unconvincing.
Ever since Charlotte Lansing and Jessica Hearst had been so badly injured in the incident at the Larkford Show, Holly had taken it upon herself to keep a casual eye on them. In her opinion, the mental scars took much longer to heal than the physical ones and she’d been rather moved to find that Charlotte and Jessica had struck up an unusual friendship, the decades between them no barrier, along with the Major – no bitterness or blame for his decision to hire the little biplane that had caused so much pain and drama in their lives.
