by Nancy Peach
They arrived in the café to find Edward Russell seated at the Formica table nearest the serving hatch.
“Dr Carter,” he said, rising to stand and she felt the thump in her stomach again. When was seeing him going to get a little easier?
“Mr Russell.” She nodded and swallowed hard. “Good morning.”
She couldn’t think of anything else to say and turned to the serving hatch before her cheeks became too florid and blotchy. She spied a portly figure stacking mugs on a tray and called over, “Dave, any chance I could have one of your flapjacks? They haven’t sold out yet, have they?”
Dave reached below the counter, his apron straining across his considerable girth. “They have…” he said in broad Bristolian, “but I knew you’d be wanting one, so I put this aside.” He pulled out a brown paper bag with a flourish, placing it triumphantly on the counter. “Although it does mean if either of these lovely ladies are after one, they’ll have to fight you for it.”
Tess looked across to Mary and Deirdre. “I’m not sure I’d fancy my chances; these two seem to be at the peak of physical fitness. If either of them wants the last one, I’d back down pretty quickly.”
“The Chelsea buns also come highly recommended,” Dave said to Mary, gesturing towards the tray in front of him. “You have a look, my love, and tell me what you’re after.” He moved his attention back to Tess. “Cup of tea is it, doc?”
“Absolutely.” She opened her purse.
“Will you have a little sit down with us?” Mary asked. “Do you have time?”
Tess darted a look at Edward who was pulling out a chair for his mother. Deirdre patted the seat beside her for Tess to take. She paused. Was she crossing a line here, or was it just a simple interaction with a couple of her patients? The television host was muttering about professionalism and inappropriate behaviour but she decided to ignore him.
“Okay.” She looked at her watch as she handed her coins over. “I’ve got ten minutes, so that would be lovely.” She sat down, noticing that Deirdre was wincing and holding her side.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “Can I help?”
“Don’t be daft.” Deirdre lowered herself gingerly onto her chair. “You’re supposed to be having a break. We haven’t asked you to sit with us for a consultation. Nooo. We want gossip, don’t we, Mary? News from the youth of today. Edward, you too, young man. Your mother tells me you work in the City – whatever that means.”
Edward’s expression was alternating between amusement and alarm at the prospect of having to deliver gossip.
“Well, I’m not entirely sure that I’m the best representative of ‘the youth of today’,” he said. “Being thirty-one almost certainly counts me out.”
He glanced in Tess’s direction, looking slightly to the side of her. “Dr Carter’s probably much better suited to answer any questions you may have about youth culture, but yes, I do work in the City. I’m a lawyer for a large bank, basically. It’s a bit dull, corporate clients, you know.”
Deirdre nodded wisely. “Fat cats, you mean. Yes. I suppose there’s a lot of events and entertaining goes on? I’ve seen The Wolf of Wall Street, champagne and dancing girls, speedboats, casinos… snorting lines of cocaine off the thighs of strippers and suchlike?”
Edward nearly spat his coffee across the table and Tess stifled a giggle as she caught his eye. “Well, not recently,” he said.
Deirdre looked sceptical. “You probably wouldn’t want to let on in front of your mother though?” She nudged Mrs Russell who was sitting next to her, smiling broadly. “You should see that film, Mary, honestly, that DiCaprio fella. The shenanigans, you wouldn’t believe it.”
She stopped suddenly, turning her attention to an elderly gentleman making his way steadily towards the table. “Stanley!” She gave a girlish wave. “Come join us. We were just talking about class A drugs and general debauchery with these lovely youngsters.”
She whispered across the table to Edward, “He’s deaf as a post my husband. I could be yelling my head off for all he’d know.”
“I can’t imagine that, Deirdre.” Edward stood to offer his hand to Stanley who had at last made it as far as their table. “Hello, sir. I believe you have the good fortune to be married to this fine woman?”
Stanley shook Edward’s hand with a wry smile and looked down at his wife. “Here you are,” he said. “I thought you’d absconded with your gorgeous physiotherapist! Come on, girl, I’m illegally parked in the disabled bay.”
“Well, I hardly think you’d be done by the Trade Descriptions Act for that.” She turned her face towards her husband’s ear, raising her voice. “You with your arthritis and me with metastatic liver cancer. I’d like to have a word with anyone who’d refuse us a blue badge.”
“Rubbish, woman! You’d be bloody furious if someone suggested you had any type of disability. Come on, shift yourself. I’ll get started now and you’ll have caught me up by the time I get to the door.” He smiled at the group as he turned, waved to Dave in the kitchen, and began the slow shuffle back across the floor.
“He’s not wrong.” Deirdre gathered up her coat and stick. “Mary, I’ll see you on Thursday, same time, same place? Race you to the lake and see if William attempts any more star jumps?” She turned to Edward. “Lovely to meet you, young man, and I don’t care what you say, thirty-one is no age at all. You should have seen what I was getting up to in my thirties. And Dr Carter, I’m back in tomorrow for a chat with one of the counsellors, so I might see you then. Cheerio!” She galloped off after Stanley, the pain in her side forgotten.
“Well,” Edward relaxed back into his chair, “she’s certainly a character, isn’t she?”
“She’s wonderful,” said Mary. “A real live wire. Although how she has the energy for it, I just can’t imagine. She never seems to stop. I suppose you know her quite well, doctor?”
“Mum,” Edward leaned across. “Dr Carter can’t tell us whether she knows Deirdre well or not.”
“Oh, goodness, yes of course.” Mary put her hand to her mouth. “Sorry. It must be terribly difficult for you, all this blurring of boundaries, what you can and can’t say. I’m sure I’d trip up all the time.”
“It’s not too much of a problem,” Tess said carefully. “Usually it’s only an issue when I see someone out of context.”
Mary was nodding.
“So, say I’m at the supermarket,” Tess said, settling into her explanation. “I might see a mother and toddler coming towards me, waving, and I’m racking my brains as to where I know them from and whether it’s in a professional or social capacity.”
She could see out of the corner of her eye that Edward was listening and almost wished she hadn’t noticed. Being anxious always made her particularly talkative.
“And the mum recognises me because a year ago her child was critically ill in hospital and maybe I clerked him in, or took his bloods, or saw him once on a ward round. Whatever it was, I’m associated with a really significant time in her life and she expects me to remember it as clearly as she does. So, she says, ‘Oh, Charlie’s doing so much better now.’ And I say, ‘That’s great,’ whilst trying desperately to remember what Charlie had been in with. And then she says, ‘Could you just take a look at this rash on his arm. Do you think it’s related to the medication?’ or something. And I say, ‘Which medication?’ or, ‘What rash?’ or I say, ‘I’m sorry, I’m really not sure. Remind me about Charlie’s history.’ And she looks at me all disappointed because she was hoping I’d remember her, or remember her son at least, and she’s realising that I don’t know who either of them are. And so, she starts to feel stupid and the whole thing ends up being a bit awkward.” She paused to catch her breath, aware that her explanation was unravelling in an entirely different direction to the one she’d started with.
“And you’re just doing your shopping,” Mary said gently.
“Exactly. I’m trying to think about what I’m going to cook for tea or whether I need
more toothpaste and now, out of the blue, I’m in this weird charade where I’m trying to be professional and make a diagnosis whilst trying to make this woman feel less awkward.” She took a sip of her tea in an attempt to stem the torrent of words pouring from her mouth but the seconds of silence yawned like a chasm beneath her, one that she had to fill. Off she went again, like an unstoppable train.
“I’m not complaining,” she said, “just in case you were thinking that. And I’m not saying that each individual patient isn’t special in their own way. Sometimes you can get really attached to people who you see a lot of or whose story really touches you. But there is this conflict between when I’m in doctor mode and when I’m just, I don’t know, Tess buying fish and chips.” Edward’s eyes seemed to be boring a hole in her face as she entered the final furlong.
“I mean, now, for example, I’m starting to question whether even this was an appropriate conversation to have with a patient. Do you see? The last thing I would want is for you to be feeling awkward about asking me a medical question because I’m on my coffee break.”
Mary nodded, looking slightly relieved that Tess had finally finished. “I do see, absolutely. The relationships must be very hard to navigate.”
“And I suppose,” Edward began, his deeper voice somewhat startling for having been silent so long, “that because these people have shared so much with you, maybe they think there’s some kind of special connection. So, they see you as a friend, someone they’ve bonded with, more than a professional?”
“Yes!” Tess looked at him, surprised enough by this observation to momentarily forget her inner turmoil. “Exactly that. It’s kind of flattering, you know. It makes you feel special, like you’ve made a difference in someone’s life, but it also makes things a bit tricky. There’s a blurring of boundaries and sometimes that’s the thing that’s hard to navigate, as you said, Mary.”
She shifted in her chair.
“The confidentiality is much less of an issue because although I like to chat, I also know when to keep my mouth shut – not that you’d know it now. But it’s the keeping a professional distance I find hard.”
She took another sip of tea, knowing that this was the best way to pace herself, to give herself a bit of thinking time. “Maybe it’s because I’m still quite junior, from a medical point of view.”
“Or maybe it’s just the type of person you are. You like to get involved,” Edward said. He was looking at her intently, as if he was trying to work something out.
Tess felt a flush creeping up from her neck at the idea of being assessed so acutely and the reality of who exactly was making the assessment.
“Perhaps you’re right, Mr Russell. Maybe I get a little too involved.” She cleared her throat and looked down at the table. There was silence for a moment until, suddenly decisive, she scrunched up the paper wrapper from her flapjack and tucked it into her empty mug.
“Anyway! Tea break over for me. I’ve got to get to clinic. I’ll probably see you in a couple of days, Mrs Russell. That is if Deirdre doesn’t drag you off on another adventure.”
She turned to Edward. “Mr Russell.”
He inclined his head. “Dr Carter.”
As she walked out of the café, she silently remonstrated with herself about this tendency of hers to overshare, to fill silences with meandering nonsense. She felt exposed and foolish, briefly thinking back to a time when she’d spoken to Edward in a different way, when his presence had made her feel comfortable and confident instead of this gibbering wreck. Was it him who had changed, or was it her? Either way, she really must rein it in. It was horrifically unprofessional for a start.
“Unfortunately, in one’s desperation to appear agreeable, it is entirely possible to instead resemble an amiable fool,” said Jane Austen as the door shut behind her.
“You just made a bit of a tit of yourself, didn’t you, Tess?” the television host added more succinctly.
Chapter Seven
She was determined to be more guarded when she saw Edward a few days later, back in the café. The thought had occurred to her that he might be in there waiting for Mary to return from her walk, but it would have been an exaggeration to say she was stalking him. She just happened to want a cup of tea after the ward round. That was all.
The plan had been to casually nod in his direction, acknowledge his presence, and move on to another table but in the event, all the other tables were occupied. As he saw her returning from the serving hatch, a flapjack balanced precariously on her mug and a newspaper tucked under her arm, he gestured in an off-hand manner to the empty chair beside him, clearing his papers and moving his laptop to give her some space to set her things down.
“Thank you,” she said. Her mug wobbled as she lowered it, spilling the tea onto her paper. “Oops! Sorry. Basic manual dexterity was never my strongest point.” She dabbed at the spillage with a napkin.
“No plans to be a surgeon then?” Edward said.
“What?” She’d just taken a bite of her snack and her voice was muffled. “Oh, I see. No. A vascular consultant at medical school once said he’d rather be sewn up by a blind amputee than subject himself to my cack-handed attempts.” She registered the expression on his face and laughed. “I know! He saw my sutures – on a bit of foam, not an actual patient – and asked why I hadn’t paid more attention in embroidery lessons.” She brushed a crumb off her chin. “He was a complete arse, mind you.”
“Sounds it.”
“Maybe I should have pursued a career in cardiothoracics just to spite him.”
“Might have been a bit extreme.” Edward smiled and looked back down to his laptop screen. “Just doing some work,” he explained. “The office has been pretty understanding about everything.”
Tess nodded. She flicked through her newspaper, pausing at an article on page four about the recent anti-austerity protests. Seeing Edward looking over to what had captured her attention she pointed to the headline, “A couple of my friends went on this march.”
“Oh yes? You didn’t want to go?”
She was still looking down at the article, scanning through the details. “I was working. Otherwise I might have.”
He nodded. “Hmm. I’m not sure I’ve ever been on a protest march.”
She looked up at him, a tiny smile on her lips as she recalled the Edward of five years ago. She wouldn’t have imagined that he’d have been big into protest marches either. “Not really your thing?” she said.
“That amuses you, does it?”
“A little.”
“And what exactly is so hilarious?” he said, smiling. “The idea of me on a march or the fact that I conform so much to a stereotype?”
“Hmmm. I’m not sure. A bit of both.” This was more like it. She felt as if she were back on familiar territory with him now. A bit of banter. A flirtatious undercurrent perhaps?
“Fair enough.” He looked back at his screen and there was silence as she skimmed through the rest of the paper until she reached the crossword. She snuck a look at him, worried that she’d misjudged it again. Had she been too bold in assuming a shared understanding? After all, she felt like she knew him. But he didn’t know her.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” she said. “Just to clarify.”
He turned his attention away from the screen, amused. “I realise that. You’re not someone who enjoys making people uncomfortable.”
“Well, quite. I just don’t have a very good poker face.”
“And I guess it’s a bit of a struggle to imagine that I might want to protest about unequal wealth distribution, given that I work for a bank?”
“Umm. Possibly.”
“And the idea of me slipping into my combat gear, pulling on a beanie, and brandishing my placard probably feels a little unlikely as well?”
Tess laughed. “It does a bit, although I’m not sure the dress code is mandatory.”
There was another pause as she drank her tea. Edward scrolled back down his screen befor
e he spoke again. “You know, I’m not completely comfortable with what’s going on in the country at the moment,” he said eventually. “I do see the poverty around me, but big City firms aren’t all as corrupt as everyone thinks. Our bank spends a lot on charity projects and the tax generated by the City probably supports the entire NHS.”
Tess nodded. “I guess I hadn’t really thought of that. It doesn’t fit with the tabloid image, does it?”
He smiled. “No. It does get a bit irritating when people assume you’re a corrupt, mercenary bastard just because you work for a bank – a bit like everyone assuming all doctors are Harold Shipman or all benefits claimants are scroungers.”
“I’ll consider myself suitably corrected,” she said. Her tone was light and he laughed.
“Sorry, I wasn’t meaning to be so defensive, I know you weren’t really being critical. And you’re right. I suspect I’d feel desperately uncool on a march.”
“Whereas I’d fit right in?”
The smile broadened. “You’re clearly much cooler than I am.”
“Are you basing that on my cardigan and sensible shoes, Mr Russell, or the fact that I work in a hospice, both of which give me massive street credibility?” She gave him a wry look. “Anyway, I hate to break it to you but I don’t think people use the word cool anymore. I do believe the current parlance is either lit or savage.”
He raised a single eyebrow. “I can see that you are quite well informed for one who claims to be so out of touch, what with your cardigan and all.”
“Only because of my brother. He’s a teacher and therefore contractually obliged to have some rough understanding of what’s being said when the kids are throwing him some shade.”
“Stop it. You’re just showing off now.”
“Ha! Yes, you’re right. I am.” She was enjoying the combative tone again. “My other source of intelligence is my housemate. She works in Casualty and knows the slang name for every street drug and sexually transmitted disease in the UK.”
