by Penny Parkes
Bright, breezy, upbeat.
He was a professional.
He could do that. Hopefully.
‘And here on the show today, we have Larkford’s favourite new resident, Connor Danes, and while some of you might recognise that name from the Hit Parade, or whatever you call it these days, there is so much more to the man than foxy guitar riffs. Stay tuned and find out more, after hearing him in devastating style on this worldwide hit from The Hive.’ Elsie moved the sliders on the console in front of her and Connor’s distinctive guitar stylings filled the studio.
‘Okay?’ said Elsie, with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Lizzie is going to be so peeved that I nabbed you as my guest. Serves her right for taking so long to recover.’ She smiled impishly. ‘Now, steer away from anything too vanilla, darling, won’t you? We want the listeners to get to know the real you.’
Connor swallowed a sudden wave of nausea at the very idea. Even he couldn’t cope with the reality of that right now.
‘So,’ Elsie continued, totally missing his discomfort in her drive to get the show on the road, ‘do you want to talk about the festival first or shall we dive straight in and talk about your rebirth as a gentleman farmer, get the ladies’ pulses racing with thoughts of you in a pair of ripped jeans and Hunter wellies?’
*
It had been going so well, thought Connor, having almost relaxed into the easy banter that Elsie so excelled at, whether on the airwaves, around the kitchen table, or propping up the bar at The Kingsley Arms.
They’d had a laugh, played a few of his favourite music picks and he felt good about how he’d described his idea for the festival. He’d wanted to be clear that this was something organic in every sense of the word – not a highly funded event run by professionals with zero-interest in their community.
They should have quit while they were ahead, hindsight offering twenty-twenty vision, of course.
If he had to pinpoint the moment the interview went south it would have to be when Elsie announced a phone-in.
No warning, no preamble – and the switchboard lit up.
It was always nice to talk to fans on the radio, there being none of that discomfort from having your personal space invaded, as it always, always was. No folded slips of paper bearing phone numbers, or occasionally scraps of lacy lingerie wrapped around a hotel room-key. Radio gave him a little bit of distance, so even when he recognised the second caller’s voice, he hadn’t felt so much as a flicker of alarm.
That hadn’t lasted long.
‘I think,’ said the new caller, her tone dripping with disdain, ‘that you have a bloody nerve, turning up in our community, taking over the houses and farmland of respected citizens – no doubt bribed by your filthy lucre – and now this? Do we need your celebrities and your fancy authors and your hot-shot chefs swanning around our town looking down their noses at us? No, frankly, we do not.’
‘Well, hello, caller,’ laughed Elsie easily, still somehow oblivious to the car crash slowly unfolding on her watch. ‘Why don’t you introduce yourself to our listeners?’
‘As you know perfectly well, I’m Cassie Holland. I’m the only person with the balls to stand up and say that we don’t want your filthy festival and debauched crowd in our town.’
People were used to Cassie climbing on her soapbox and mouthing off, but there was an edge of hysteria to her voice, slicing across the airwaves that suggested she wasn’t entirely in control of herself today. Connor glanced across at Elsie in alarm.
She held up a soothing hand, a gesture to allay his concerns, before dropping it sharply as Cassie continued.
‘And don’t think I’m going to sit idly by and watch you drag Larkford’s reputation through the mud either. I have some rather interesting photos of some of your friends and what they’ve been doing, while they’ve been here in Larkford – you can see them under the hashtag “spottedinlarkford” – and I have to say your sponsor was pretty interested when I sent them over.’
‘Oh, Cassie,’ began Elsie, her blink-rate indicating some level of the panic she was at last beginning to feel. ‘And with that, it’s time for another—’
‘They’ve pulled your sponsorship, you know, now that they’ve seen exactly what kind of a druggy—’
‘And here’s a little Eric Clapton – another one with definite flair on a fretboard,’ Elsie almost shouted into her mic, cutting the phone-line and ramping up the volume of the CD only to gasp in horror at the unfortunate parallel as Eric blasted out the opening verse of ‘Cocaine’.
Connor’s phone jiggled silently on the console in front of him and he picked it up, the screen lighting up with tweet after tweet, message after message.
‘Well, you can’t say she isn’t committed to her cause. Bee-you-tiful have pulled their support – biggest lifestyle blog in Europe now thinks we’re tainted and seedy apparently. Too contentious. So that’s nice.’ Connor nodded his head, like one of those jiggling toys on the parcel shelves of Ford Escorts everywhere, something in the movement appeasing his jangling nerves.
‘Maybe I should just admit defeat and scratch the whole thing,’ he murmured, half to himself. The resistance to the very idea of his festival seemed to be dividing the town in two – and those who were against it seemingly had no filter when it came to sharing their reasons why. Whether those reasons happened to be true or not.
Even as Eric Clapton assured him that cocaine did not lie, he knew for a fact that Cassie Holland did. Loudly and unapologetically, if it stood between her and getting her way. Surely his friends weren’t crass enough to be using drugs in public places, except Docie’s manager, of course – but then, insulin injections hardly counted as drug use, did they?
He pulled off the headphones abruptly, swallowing down a cloying wave of panic and claustrophobia. Whatever rock bottom felt like, it couldn’t be worse than this tsunami of overwhelming emotions. Too much. On every level. Elsie held out her hand to him, apology in her eyes, for once lost for words.
But then, what could she possibly have said to offset the damage from appearing on her show? Not just to the festival, but to Connor’s fragile hold on his new reality.
It seemed like the cruellest irony of all, that, when he’d finally risked opening up and sharing his vulnerability, had needed support the most, he found himself ill-equipped to ask for it; the vocabulary simply eluding him.
‘I think I’ll be heading off now,’ said Connor, his tone disjointed and jerky, as he leaned forward to kiss Elsie’s cheek, taking a moment to squeeze her hand – in search of comfort, but finding none – before striding out of the room and letting the door swing closed behind him.
Chapter 29
‘Feel better,’ said Holly as she hung up the phone the next morning, trying not to embrace the embarrassing schadenfreude that had enveloped her at the thought of covering another sick day for Alice. There had been an inkling of a plan in the back of her mind since about 4 a.m. and this, she felt, was the perfect opportunity to put a little meat on its bones.
‘What are you looking so smug about?’ asked Elsie with interest, as she limbered up in her disconcertingly bright leotard and leg warmers. The only thing silver that Elsie was contributing to the Silver Swans ballet class was her hair.
Holly grinned. ‘Well, very sadly poor Alice is still under the weather.’
‘Yes, I can see that you’re devastated,’ Elsie said with her trademark raised eyebrow.
‘I have to cover her morning surgery again, that’s all. And Plum is coping so brilliantly here that it seems too good an opportunity to miss. It’s okay with you, Plum, yes?’
‘But of course,’ said Plum easily as she sliced bananas onto five small plates with incredible dexterity and speed.
Holly turned to Elsie and dropped her voice a little furtively, unwilling to share her plotting with Taffy until she’d done a little more research. ‘I just want to explore whether there’s any way for me to have the best of both worlds: more time with my patients, yet still
be at The Practice.’
‘Private healthcare for the great unwashed?’ Elsie queried.
‘Not private, just better,’ Holly said with a frown, holding her finger to her lips as Taffy strolled into the kitchen.
‘Morning!’ he said breezily, all the brighter for having managed an unprecedented block of six hours’ sleep. ‘Any lovely plans afoot?’ He took in Elsie stretching over the back of a chair. ‘Obviously Elsie’s on a mission to snap as many ligaments as she can in a single day!’
Elsie, Holly and Plum looked at each other and shook their heads, almost in sync, laughing at Taffy’s panicked reaction at being outnumbered in his own kitchen.
‘I’m coming with you, actually,’ said Holly, handing him the pancake spatula, as she bounded up the stairs to get dressed. ‘Wait for me,’ she called down the stairwell.
‘Crikey, somebody’s back on the full-fat coffee this morning!’ said Taffy, a little thrown by Holly’s early morning energy burst.
Elsie’s head spun around like an eagle owl, slowly but no less menacing. ‘Are you telling me that this,’ she lifted her coffee mug from the table and waved it alarmingly in the air, ‘is not full-fat?’
Taffy blinked, knowing that Holly would kill him if he let on about her cunning decaffeination plan.
‘It is a special Italian blend, that is all,’ interrupted Plum, earning herself a grateful smile from Taffy and a suspicious glare from Elsie. ‘I find it very tasty.’
‘Ready!’ called Holly, barrelling into the kitchen with her boots in one hand and applying lip balm with the other; if there was one thing that parenting taught you, it was how to get dressed in a hurry. ‘And after work, you, Elsie Townsend, owe me one guided tour of Number 44. Deal? Don’t think I didn’t notice that Connor Danes getting the priority treatment.’ She teased, delighted to see Elsie blush furiously. Holly shook her head. ‘I don’t know, these celebrities . . .’ She kissed Elsie lovingly on both cheeks and smiled. ‘When you’re ready to share, I’m here and excited to jump on board, deal?’
‘Deal,’ said Elsie gratefully, as Taffy cleared his throat and muttered repeatedly about the time.
With a flurry of hugs and kisses among the children and promises of a fun outing to see the ‘tiny horses’ that afternoon, Holly and Taffy made it to the front door and stepped out into the Market Place with that heady combination of freedom and guilt that all working parents experience.
Taffy checked his watch. ‘Coffee on the way?’
‘God, yes!’ said Holly with feeling, wanting to ride the adrenalin rush of her hurried change of plan for as long as possible, and slightly relieved to see that Taffy hadn’t become some punctuality fiend as she’d feared. He’d just wanted to stop and tank up. ‘This decaf thing is killing me,’ she told him.
‘And Elsie suspects,’ Taffy said, as though his own faux-pas had nothing to do with that.
‘Tomorrow’s problem,’ said Holly firmly, her skill at compartmentalising getting a little more developed every day. ‘Today, I shall be mainly focusing on patients and Matthew’s funding application and, if I’m really, really lucky, I have big plans for going to the loo all by myself.’
‘Well!’ said Taffy with a grin. ‘That’s just reckless.’ He paused, his brain obviously not quite as perky as his wife. ‘What funding?’
‘You know Mike Urquhart from the Rugby Club? Well, he’s going to put a suggestion to their board that Matthew’s Young Carers group have a regular provision so that they can plan ahead a little, rather than living quarter to quarter. Matthew’s talking about setting up a permanent drop-in centre somewhere and Mike seemed really keen to help. It’s a question of investment really, rather than seasonal sponsorship? It was a slightly mad suggestion, I know, but Mike seems to be going for it.’
‘You seem to be talking to Mike an awful lot these days,’ said Taffy, somewhat missing the point of the conversation. ‘Is he still pestering you to take that stupid job?’
‘It’s not a stupid job,’ Holly protested, before realising how defensive that sounded. ‘And I’m not taking it, you know that. My priorities are here, but that doesn’t mean I can’t explore a few options – you know, you scratch my back et cetera, et cetera.’
Taffy nodded. ‘Okay. Sorry. I don’t know why I get all het up when I think about you leaving The Practice. It just doesn’t sit very comfortably with me, that’s all.’
Holly frowned. ‘Always supposing I can come back properly, not just as sick cover when you’re stuck.’ Even as the words came out of her mouth, she could have bitten them back. The whole tone of their conversation shifted.
Taffy shook his head. ‘You’re a partner, Holly. You can come back whenever you bloody well choose – always assuming that’s what you actually want? Maybe you need to think about where your loyalties lie? All this talk of Bath Rugby Club hasn’t gone away, has it?’
Holly sighed, their lovely, jokey, romantic walk through Larkford sullied yet again by sulking and logistics. ‘Well, maybe you should say the same to your friend Dan, because he’s biting at my heels to get the Bath gig too,’ she retorted peevishly.
She knew that revelation would sting, but somehow the filter on her words had slipped the moment they’d both jumped on the offensive. ‘Look, nobody’s taking any jobs anywhere else, okay? Nobody has committed to anything, and everybody – and I do mean everybody – has their priorities straight. Kids first, yes? As we agreed. And if we could actually have a conversation that lasts more than five minutes without an interruption or a misunderstanding then I reckon you would see that.’
‘Oh,’ said Taffy, sounding eerily like Ben and Tom after a telling-off.
‘Exactly,’ said Holly. ‘Now, do you still want to get this coffee, or are you champing at the bit to run off and ask Dan what his plans are?’ she asked him easily, knowing all too well where his mind would be fixated.
He dithered. ‘Maybe we should all sit down together again and talk this through?’
‘You think?’ teased Holly. ‘Look, we all know that a proper Partners’ Meeting is way overdue, so let’s just put one in the diary and then breathe, okay? You can save up all your issues and grievances, and I can have a better idea of a few plans I’d like to implement.’
‘What plans?’
‘Now that would be telling,’ said Holly, pausing for a moment, ‘but I think you’ll like them. I’ve just been thinking, ever since I’ve been at The Practice, we’ve always been on a mission to rescue something, or change something – isn’t it time we took a step back and tried to build something instead – something we can be proud of?’
‘In all our free time?’ Taffy said drily, unintentionally raining on her parade. He shrugged. ‘Have you noticed how we’re all just juggling so much that we’re not really communicating – at home, or at work?’
Holly nodded, quietly delighted to hear him acknowledge it, accepting that she might need to pick her moments a little more carefully before talking about change. ‘But it won’t last for ever. That’s parenthood for you. And if it helps, I’m told it’s just the first eighteen years or so that are the hardest.’
*
Holly sat back in the doctors’ lounge three hours later and smiled. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that every single one of her appointments this morning would have been more measured, more effective and less stressful for her patients had it been just five minutes longer.
She’d Googled the stats in the wee small hours, when the idea buzzed round her brain and refused to let her sleep. No longer were GPs legally required to offer ten-minute appointments; it was at the discretion of each practice and each GP. Obviously there were cost and care considerations. Either a longer working day to see the same number of patients, or fewer patients seen . . . Compromises either way. But what Holly needed to consider was whether the benefits outweighed the obstacles.
Having seen young Carly Bartlett this morning, and spent nearly twenty minutes unravelling and reapplying the dressings required f
or her inflamed psoriasis, maybe it was just something to consider for chronic conditions that were less than straightforward?
Ah, but then, whichever way you looked at it, you’d be creating a tiered system; who’s to say that one patient might feel hard done by, if he’d only got ten minutes for his throat infection?
If only she had the time and the information to think things through more clearly. Simply booking people in for double appointment slots just didn’t really address the issues.
‘Holly?’ Tilly stood beside her, fidgeting from foot to foot and clearly loath to interrupt.
‘Everything okay?’ Holly asked, sitting forward on autopilot, always assuming the worst when a junior doctor looked this nervous. The time Alice had got the ear syringing kit stuck in Gladys Jones’s ear was a notable example.
‘Have you got a moment? To chat? I’d just love to ask you something.’
Well, thought Holly, obviously that answer being ‘no, no, hell no’. But of course, she smiled, and scooched over on the sofa. ‘Sure,’ she replied, kissing goodbye to her five minutes’ peace, but trying to be a good egg about it.
Tilly sat down and folded the fabric of her culottes into pleats in her nervousness. ‘Well Alice and I were talking. And I confessed to her that I’m, well, not a very good GP.’ Tilly glanced up to gauge Holly’s reaction.
Holly just nodded. ‘Okay.’ She didn’t honestly feel that she could contradict her, having heard how she’d handled the Hannah Porter case quite so clumsily. Something she’d intended to address, but, she reminded herself, they all had to start somewhere.
Tilly blinked, all braced to bat aside Holly’s reassurances and a little off balance when none materialised. ‘So, the thing is, I was talking about moving on—’
‘Oh no, that’s not the answer,’ Holly cut in. ‘You can’t just run away if things are difficult. The only way around this is to go through. To get better.’ She wasn’t proud that her immediate thought was that one less doctor on staff would essentially scupper all her plans for reorganisation.
