by Penny Parkes
‘Now you know what it’s really like. It’s not just Range Rovers and Hunter welly-boots,’ said Alice gently.
‘And now I don’t want to go anywhere.’ She sighed dramatically. ‘And I’m blaming you for this,’ said Tilly clearly.
‘I can live with that,’ said Alice, perfectly happy to have Tilly’s reawakening on her conscience.
Tilly threw a cushion at her. ‘You’re not taking this seriously!’
‘I am,’ replied Alice. ‘I’m just trying to keep a little perspective. One of us needs to, if you’re going to lose the plot.’
Tilly looked up and smiled, genuinely amused to hear her own words – words that she had been saying to Alice for years now – quoted back at her. ‘Oh, how the worm has turned,’ she said.
Alice chucked the cushion back at her. ‘Or has the student become the master?’
Tilly shrugged. ‘You know, I think it may be a case of the blind leading the blind with us, actually. Have you ever noticed that we’re never sorted and settled at the same time?’
‘Have you ever noticed that neither of us are exactly sorted and settled? At least, not according to the gospel of Orkney,’ Alice countered.
‘Your mum still on at you to go back?’ Tilly said.
‘You could say that. She’s gone up a gear though since Dr Sjorgen confirmed a retirement date. She’s still holding out for a batch of mini McWalkers and some island kudos from being “the doctor’s mum”. It’s not really a sustainable scenario, but that’s my mother for you.’
Tilly smiled. ‘Well, at least she cares enough to pester you, annoy you and generally piss you off. I mean, that’s nice to know, isn’t it? Holly’s mum doesn’t seem to give a rat’s arse about her new twins, or her earlier set, come to think of it. That’s got to sting.’
‘She’s not even coming to the Christening, if you can believe that. She’s sending Premium Bonds instead,’ Alice confirmed.
‘Ah well, if in doubt, send cash. It worked for my Aunt Ophelia for years and we were always pleased to hear from her,’ Tilly said, unimpressed.
‘So,’ said Alice, not to be distracted by Tilly’s obvious ploy to change the subject. ‘Are we staying or going?’
Tilly frowned. ‘The thing is – and don’t shout – it’s become rather obvious that I am a rubbish GP. I mean it. I really struggle with going the extra mile for the moaners and the whiners and the First World problems. Don’t get me wrong: I listen and I treat them. I just don’t seem to care as much as you and Holly do.’
‘Ah,’ said Alice. ‘And here was me about to suggest a course or something. I’m not even sure you can teach empathy, though, Tills.’
Tilly shook her head. ‘How can I be so emotionally invested in some patients on the other side of the planet, and not in my actual neighbours?’ She sighed. ‘I don’t really know how to be a GP, but it occurs to me that if I want to keep being one, I think that should change.’
‘Probably a good idea,’ said Alice with a smile, watching her friend’s mental machinations.
‘And you jest, but I’ve found a course – a three-day one about connecting with patients blah, blah, blah . . .’ Tilly said earnestly.
Alice laughed. ‘I have to tell you that may not be the most encouraging attitude to start off with though . . . Is it just a disconnect after years of working in the Third World, do you think? Maybe your parameters need recalibrating?’
‘Well,’ huffed Tilly, ‘I haven’t worked out how to turn myself off and back on again. I’m not a fucking iPhone.’
‘Nooo,’ agreed Alice, ‘you’re definitely still running on Android . . .’ earning herself yet another cushion lob.
‘You’re not being very helpful,’ Tilly said quietly, as though Alice should automatically have all the answers.
‘And you did not come here just to bring soup,’ Alice said matter-of-factly. ‘Now, in all honesty there’s only one question you need to ask yourself: do you even want to stay? Because if your heart is in the Sudan, or Ethiopia, all the courses in the world aren’t going to change that, but if you want to stay . . .’
Tilly nodded. ‘I’d like to. I mean, I didn’t really give this my best shot. I was just here to take a breath, spend some time with you, have a little fun . . . It wasn’t a calculated decision, but now, suddenly, I find I want to try. Seeing little Lulu makes me want to try.’
‘So stay,’ said Alice as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. ‘And go on that course. And what about a mentor? Someone to actually guide you through becoming a GP, rather than just throw you in at the deep end? If I’m honest, I’m not sure we gave you the best start here either. It was all a bit chaotic and you seemed so capable . . .’
‘Well, I am very capable,’ protested Tilly, ‘when it comes to hard medicine. It’s the soft issues that leave me flailing. It’s not easy to admit, but I think on some level, when I arrived, I had the misconception that depression and infertility and things like that were issues of the privileged – everyone else in the world is busy getting on with the business of staying alive.’ She paused, clearly uncomfortable in her confession. ‘I don’t feel like that anymore.’
‘Well, that’s progress, I suppose.’ Alice paused. ‘I guess a lot of things must feel like that when you’re used to dealing with famine and epidemics. But it doesn’t make it less of an issue for the patient suffering through it.’
‘Do you think this is what maturity feels like?’ Tilly wondered, ever the Peter Pan of their med school cohort.
‘Seems unlikely, while you’re still having dodgy flings left, right and centre, to be honest. Actually,’ Alice paused, ‘we should probably talk about that too, because if you are going to stay, then something needs to change.’
‘Empathy and chastity?’ challenged Tilly.
‘I was aiming for discernment,’ Alice said quietly. ‘Aiming for balance rather than extremes. A relationship rather than a one-night stand. Isn’t there anyone you’ve met here that’s intrigued you enough to want more?’
Colour flooded Tilly’s face, taking Alice a little by surprise. In all the years she’d known Tilly there had been no one with the ability to produce such a reaction in her best friend, who was clearly calibrated into the love-them-and-leave-them school of thought. It was hardly surprising, given her history, but still . . . Maybe it wasn’t such a shock that it was little Lulu Fowler, heading into the foster system, that had provoked this about-turn in her friend’s behaviour.
Tilly was unable to meet her gaze, it seemed, as she became suddenly fascinated with the warp and weft weave of the sofa throw. ‘Well, it’s nothing really. But, I mean, well—’ She paused and cleared her throat. ‘There’s only one person I’ve felt a proper connection with since I’ve been here. You know, that instant connection? That feeling that they just get you?’
Alice nodded, trying not to be put out that she herself didn’t apparently tick that particular box, before realising that they weren’t talking friendship here; Tilly really was opening up to the possibility of Someone Special. ‘And?’ she prompted.
Tilly shook her head. ‘It can’t go anywhere. And maybe I’m the only one who feels that way – we haven’t discussed it. Not to mention, that it feels a little too close to home. First rule of camping applies to relationships too, you know: don’t poop where you eat.’
Alice mentally flipped through the Rolodex of likely candidates and frowned as the thought occurred to her. ‘Honey, technically, I think that ship has sailed. You’ve already been shagging half the under-twenty-fives in town – most of whom are registered at The Practice. You’ve already crossed the Rubicon.’
A smile flickered across Tilly’s face. ‘It didn’t matter so much when I was planning on leaving.’
Alice nodded, taking Tilly’s words as a decision to stay. ‘Well, then, let’s get you settled, get you properly supported at work and who knows what might be in your future? Or who?’ She may have been fishing for a name, but Tilly ignored the question.
She stood up and hugged Alice tightly, seemingly happy to risk catching her plague for the sake of a little solidarity. ‘Who knows?’ she whispered into Alice’s hair with a smile, allowing a little hope to brighten her voice and her mood.
Chapter 28
‘And who, might I ask, are we staring into the distance and pining for?’ interrupted a voice into Connor’s reverie, his early morning amble with Jamieson hardly a cardio workout, but nevertheless giving him time to think, time to breathe and reflect. A dangerous combination, as it turned out, if the embryonic lyrics drifting through his mind were anything to go by.
He turned and saw Elsie appraising him, with her head tilted slightly to one side, her breath leaving visible puffs in the cold air. ‘Hello, trouble,’ he said, bending down low to kiss her pink, powdery cheek. ‘You look like you’re on a mission?’
‘Always, dear boy. Always. Can’t let a little snow slow you down.’ She grinned, her hi-tech Salomon hiking boots somewhat at odds with her full-length faux fur, and he could almost see the cogs turning in her mind. ‘I was thinking that you looked like a man in need of a life raft actually. A little adrift – lonely in a crowd and all that?’
Connor shrugged disconsolately. There was no denying that Elsie was spot on the money as always. ‘Some days are easier than others,’ he prevaricated. ‘Some days involve journalists . . .’
She nodded astutely, in no need of elaboration. In many ways, Connor realised, she would be the perfect confidante, understanding only too well the downfalls of a life lived in the public eye.
There was a disconnect inside him and he had no idea how to fix it, for any solution would surely require him to lay his soul bare, to allow a level of honesty, vulnerability and intimacy that he couldn’t quite bring himself to acquire. Was this the alternative though? Shallow friendships, a gaping hole in his heart where mutual support and understanding could be?
It wasn’t as though he could blame his new friends, though, he realised. Railing against them for not being there for him when he needed them – for on one level they had been.
Superficially.
But how could they help, after all, if they didn’t even know the extent of his problems, deceived by his own fraudulent façade? And the longer it persisted, the more he continued to shatter into tiny pieces, no use to anyone, even himself.
‘I had a phone call late last night from some scuzzy journo,’ he blurted out suddenly, ‘asking if my Solstice festival was a “memorial” to Rachel and the baby. And honestly? I just wanted to punch him. Over a year since they died, Elsie, and I’m still like this. It just doesn’t seem to get any easier.’
He held out his hands helplessly, unshaven and scruffy, his ailing Irish wolfhound propped against his leg – unclear who was supporting whom – vulnerable in a way that he could never have foreseen a few months ago, as though the effort of maintaining the pretence had simply left him in a moment. ‘And the only way I can keep going – keep getting up in the morning and going through the motions of living – is by keeping busy, fielding meetings, wooing managers. And look how that’s turning out: I try to do something nice for my new home town and suddenly I’m a social pariah.’
Elsie said nothing, just nodded, almost as though she were unwilling to break the spell of his confessional.
‘I’m beginning to wonder if I did the right thing in leaving Dorset, to be honest,’ he confided tentatively, unused to sharing his private feelings, but somehow intuiting that Elsie could identify. She was a safe pair of hands. ‘At least there was no expectation on me to be anything other than the “grieving rock star” there. I could have quietly drunk my way through this feeling, binged on boxsets, and be back on tour by now.’
‘Do you really think so?’ Elsie asked, intrigued, leaning against the Cotswold-stone wall beside him, brushing the snow crystals aside and following his gaze along the frost-gilded water meadows. ‘If we’re being honest, I’ve never found that grief responds terribly well to drugs and alcohol. Although, to be fair, I never tried the boxsets . . .’
He looked over at her then, at the tenderness and affection in her voice. ‘See. This is what I have to contend with, living here . . .’ His voice broke. ‘How can I be angry and self-destructive when there are so many people around me who seem to bloody care? Even though they have no idea. Even though I don’t understand why; I’m a selfish son-of-a-bitch most of the time.’
‘Well, yes, I can see that,’ Elsie said scathingly. ‘You’ve been rubbish at helping Lizzie through her recovery; you haven’t supported any local businesses in setting up your new enterprises; and your festival plans are frankly self-serving and narcissistic.’ Elsie gave him a gentle punch on the arm, which actually hurt more than he cared to admit, fragile on every level this morning, it seemed.
‘You can put yourself down as much as you like,’ Elsie continued, gathering momentum, ‘but you need to remember that, to most of us here in Larkford, you’re just that chap Connor, who sadly lost his family in horrible circumstances. Why wouldn’t we want to support you?’
‘Nobody wants to support the festival though, do they? The only fecking thing keeping me going, moving forward, venturing out into the world again.’ Connor sighed. ‘I mean, it was nice to think I could exist in a world of cheese and honey, but we both know I might need a little bit more.’
‘Do we, though?’ Elsie challenged him. ‘If you had a fulfilling personal life and your own boutique business? Is that a belief that bears scrutiny?’
Connor scruffed the tufts of fur on Jamieson’s head, and the first hint of calm crossed his face. ‘You’re not impressed by my credentials at all, are you, Elsie?’
‘Should I be? Are they making you happy? They’ve made you rich and famous, of course.’ Elsie waved a hand dismissively as though that were a given of no importance. ‘But you moved here to make a fresh start and to be a little gentler on yourself at a pretty hideous time. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.’
‘Cheering,’ he said drily, unsure whether he was supposed to be comforted by the notion of other people feeling just as bereft, just as broken. Jamieson licked his hand reassuringly and Connor steeled himself to ask the one question that had been haunting him for weeks now. ‘When do you know, Elsie? When do you know whether it’s just grief, or whether there’s a real problem,’ he tapped his forehead, ‘up there?’
Elsie considered for a moment. ‘Firstly, I don’t think you could ever say “just” grief – it’s a process, isn’t it? It’s not linear and it’s different for everyone.’ She paused again, caught up by her own memories. ‘I still have days when I wake up literally winded by the realisation that my boy Ginger is gone and that’s four decades later. But most days? Most days it’s barely a shadow in the back of my mind. I’ve filled my life with friends and love and laughter. Deliberately, actually.’
Connor blinked, pushing away traitorous thoughts of Kitty that he had no business thinking. ‘So more time-down-the-pub, less trip-to-the-funny-farm, you reckon?’ Connor clarified, able to pinpoint even in that moment that it didn’t feel like quite enough. Anywhere near enough, actually, as he teetered on this precarious precipice. He hadn’t realised until recently that it was possible to feel this lonely, this hollow, while surrounded by people and animals every day. And he’d been on tour with The Hive for months on end before now, so that was saying something.
‘Well,’ Elsie mused, twisting her wrist to check the chunky Cartier timepiece that rotated under its own weight as she did so, ‘if you’re convinced that this festival of yours is going to keep you sane and focused, we could always attempt a little social rehabilitation? If you’re not too busy for the next hour or so?’
‘Say what now?’ Connor looked worried and well he might where Elsie was concerned. Sometimes, he wondered if her advice was always quite on point. Sometimes, it felt as though the force of her personality stepped in where common sense might reasonably have otherwise prevailed.
; ‘Darling boy,’ Elsie said firmly, seemingly stepping back onto firmer ground, judging by the renewed confidence in her voice, ‘this festival idea of yours is obviously getting more than a few backs up around here. And that Cassie Holland seems even more het up than usual recently. Heaven knows what’s flown up her organic skirts, but why not have your say? Come on, I’m live on Radio Larkford in ten. You can be my esteemed celebrity guest and tell all the listeners about your vision. You know, the way you described it to me originally?’
‘But I . . .’ Connor held up his hands. ‘I’ve nothing prepared.’
‘That’s the beauty,’ Elsie said assuredly. ‘You’ll speak from the heart rather than a press release. Let Larkford get to know the man behind the brand. To most of them you’re still Connor Danes from The Hive – they have no idea you’re just as flawed and befoibled as the rest of us. Tell them about your gratitude to the town for welcoming you at a “difficult time”, if nothing else.’ She paused. ‘If this festival is what you say you need, then let’s make it happen.’
*
It was the work of moments, but Elsie was seemingly unused to hearing the word ‘no’, possibly because her highly selective hearing simply edited it out. Once she had an idea in her head, she ran with it. Apparently.
Either way, when the light bulb above the studio door at Radio Larkford flickered on a short while later, Connor found himself sitting in the hot seat – headphones on and the smell of haddock from downstairs assailing his nostrils. The weight on his chest was still there, but the blur of frenetic activity had driven all other, more self-destructive, thoughts from his head. Maybe Elsie’s crackpot scheme had merit after all, he thought.
