by Pat Herbert
He worked through his roster of patients, who all seemed to be going down with a nasty strain of flu brought on by the cold, damp spell of weather. He prescribed the same medication for at least ten people that evening, and he was getting bored with the repetition. What he wouldn’t give for a complicated burst spleen or a suspicious lump.
His last patient was waiting by herself as it turned seven o’clock. He fetched her from the waiting room into his warm surgery and asked her to take a seat. She was very young, no more than twenty, he reckoned. She was pretty, slim and dark, but, better than that, she showed no cold or flu symptoms. Something more interesting, he hoped.
“Name?”
“Jones.”
“First name?”
Silence.
“Your first name, dear?”
“November.”
“But can I have your name? It’s still October, by the way.”
Never the most patient of men, Robbie was already becoming exasperated with this young girl. He was tired, and his surgery had already overrun by half an hour. And now he seemed to have a mental case on his hands.
“November is my name.” The girl said stolidly, looking at him through dark-rimmed eyes.
“Oh, sorry,” mumbled Robbie, scribbling on his pad. “Unusual,” he observed.
“Don’t I know it? Blame my parents.”
“Presumably you were born in November?”
“June, actually. But my parents didn’t think I looked like a June.”
Robbie looked at her and couldn’t but agree. She looked much more November-ish, but surely not as a babe in arms?
“Right,” he said. “So your date of birth is?”
“Here’s my NHS medical card with all the details,” she said, handing it to him.
“Now, what can I do for you, Miss Jones?”
“I’m not sure ...” she began, looking anywhere but directly at the doctor.
He began to feel impatient again. Was this young woman just wasting his time? He had been looking forward to a quiet game of chess with Bernard that evening, but it looked like he would be detained in the surgery for some time yet.
“Well,” he said patiently, “what are your symptoms?”
The girl fidgeted in her seat. “I’m very tired all the time for a start.”
“I see, well you could be anaemic,” suggested Robbie. “I’ll need to send you for some blood tests.”
“I don’t think that’s what’s wrong,” she said gloomily. “You see, I sleepwalk all the time. I wake every morning more tired than when I went to bed.”
“Dear me,” said Robbie, scribbling away. “That must be very annoying. How long has that been going on?”
“Well, only since I moved here,” she said. “About three months. Me and my boyfriend and two other couples all rent this big place.”
“I see,” said Robbie. “So, you haven’t lived in Wandsworth long?”
“No. I used to live with my parents. Up north. Then I took up with Mike, and he suggested we club together with these other friends to get somewhere of our own. It’s been fun up to now, but I get so tired and irritable, and Mike says I sometimes talk as if I was someone else. I don’t know what he means, but I do have lapses when I can’t remember what I said or what I was doing.”
Robbie looked at her thoughtfully. He could see this wasn’t going to be a five-minute consultation.
“Right, young lady, first things first. I’ll need to give you a thorough examination. Is that all right?”
“Go ahead. You’re the doctor.”
Chapter Twenty
Robbie rubbed his chin as he contemplated his next move. Bernard glared at him. His friend seemed to take longer and longer over his game these days, and he was bored. Chess wasn’t even a game he particularly enjoyed, either, mainly because he wasn’t very good at it.
Finally, Robbie made his move, and Bernard swiftly checked him.
“Hang on,” protested Robbie. “Give me a chance! I’d hardly taken my hand off my rook.”
“This game’s going on too long, Robbie,” said Bernard, getting up to replenish the doctor’s whisky glass. “I’m tired.”
Robbie looked up into his friend’s face. “Tired?”
“Yes. I want to go to bed. It’s half-past eleven.”
“You know, Bernie, I had a strange young woman in the surgery this evening. She was tired too.”
“What’s strange about that? Lots of people get tired, especially these days. Too much stress, if you ask me.”
Robbie smirked and stroked his chin again. “Yes, I know, Bernie. But this was different.”
“Want to tell me about it?” Bernard was interested now. “Unless you’ll be breaching patient confidentiality, of course.”
“Well, I won’t tell you her name, naturally. Anyway, you’re a vicar; I don’t suppose it counts if I tell you.”
Bernard smiled. “Possibly not. Go on.”
He sat back in his comfortable old armchair, sucking contentedly on his pipe, glad that Robbie had decided to abandon the game at last. This chat was going to be much more interesting.
“She was very young, only twenty-two. A pretty girl, a bit on the thin side though. She had a strange name – November, of all things. Have you ever heard of anybody being called November before?”
“Not that I can think of. But people call their children after the month they were born in sometimes – June, April, May…”
“Yes, but this girl wasn’t born in November. She was born in June.”
Bernard grinned. “Her parents probably had a sense of humour. Anyway, Robbie, get on with it.” He eyed the clock on the mantelpiece as it chimed the half-hour. “What was so strange about this young woman being tired?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think there was any physical reason. She seemed a perfectly healthy young woman to me. But she told me she woke up more tired than when she went to bed – as if she’d been walking about all night. Apparently, her boyfriend – I presume he was – anyway the chap she lives with – often has to guide her back to bed in the middle of the night.”
“So, she sleepwalks. That would account for her tiredness when she wakes up, surely?”
“I suppose so, but she said she’s only started to sleepwalk since moving to her current address just a few months ago.”
“Even so...”
“But there’s something about the girl that disturbs me. Something she said – her boyfriend told her that sometimes she sounds like someone else when she talks.”
“Hmm, I see,” said Bernard, not seeing at all.
“And when I was examining her something very odd happened...”
“Yes – go on.”
“I was sounding her chest when she suddenly went very taut and said, and I quote her exact words, ‘you shouldn’t be a-doing of that, mister’. I thought she meant I shouldn’t have been touching her chest, but she obviously wasn’t addressing her remarks to me.”
Bernard laughed in astonishment. “How extraordinary.”
“Exactly. Her voice was different too. It was like a completely different person talking – very nasal, a different timbre altogether. And not as well-educated-sounding, not like the young lady herself at all. Also, when she spoke, her eyes became glassy, and she just seemed to stare at a spot behind me.”
Bernard stared at his friend. “So, what d’you make of it?”
Robbie shook his head and finished off his whisky. “I’ve no idea, Bernie. No idea at all.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“She’s there again, blast ’er.”
Mrs Harper said this out loud to herself as she peered through the vicarage parlour window into the front garden and saw the bent old woman standing at the gate. Going to the front door, she opened it and strode down the path towards her.
“Is there something you wanted?” she called, as she approached the strange woman. “I’ve seen you ’ere three times this week. You just admiring the herbac
eous borders, or do you ’ave another reason for being ’ere?”
The old woman looked at her, unbending slightly, although it was obviously an effort.
“Who are you?” she asked, none too politely.
Mrs Harper gave one of her famous sniffs. “I’m the vicar’s ’ousekeeper if it’s any business of yours, which it ain’t. Now, what d’you want? D’you want to see the vicar?”
“I don’t know,” came the mysterious reply. “Only if he can tell me who I am.”
“No disrespect,” said Mrs Harper, “but, at your time of life, it’s about time you knew that.”
The old lady glared at her. “You’re not standing in my shoes, are you?”
Mrs Harper had had enough of her now. “Look, if you’ve no business with the vicar, then would you mind taking your ’ands off the gate and buggering off?”
“All right, I’m going. No need to be rude.”
She watched as the old woman turned and began to hobble down the street. She was beginning to feel sorry for her. Must be a bit senile, poor old soul. There’s more out than in, thought Nancy Harper, philosophically.
Waiting to make sure the old lady had gone, she returned to the vicarage, still puzzled by the old lady’s odd behaviour. There was a story there, she was sure, but it wouldn’t get the baby bathed or the bread buttered trying to work out what it was. She had more important things to attend to, like getting the spare room ready for Dorothy Plunkett.
She was looking forward to seeing her again. Dorothy had made a favourable impression on her, and she had secretly hoped Bernard would pop the question. The question had not been popped, however, and Nancy Harper had been disappointed. Still, she thought, let’s hope he won’t let the nice lady slip through his fingers a second time. After all, he wasn’t getting any younger.
“She was ’ere again,” said Mrs Harper as she poked the study fire.
Bernard turned around to look at her. He was at his desk, trying to form the words for that coming Sunday’s sermon but was, as usual, finding it difficult.
“Who was here again?” he asked, absently.
“That dotty old lady. You know, the one I told you about the other day,” she replied, straightening up with difficulty. She winced as a shaft of pain shot through her hip.
“Oh?”
Bernard didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. “Mrs Aitch, I’m sorry, but I’m very busy. I’ve got to get this sermon finished.”
“You know what she told me?” Nancy Harper wasn’t to be put off by his obvious lack of interest.
Sighing, he put down his pen, realising he would get no peace until he heard her out. “No, what did she tell you?” he asked.
“That she didn’t know who she was. Can you credit it, Vicar?”
Bernard frowned. “That was a funny thing to say. How old was she?”
“At least a hundred by the look of ’er,” exaggerated Mrs Harper, clearing away the remains of Bernard’s afternoon tea. She picked up the tray and headed for the door.
“Well, treat her kindly,” said Bernard to his housekeeper’s retreating back. “And, if you see her again, see if she needs anything. I’d be happy to have a chat with her, if she wants.”
“Whatever you say, Vicar.” She closed the door quietly.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Robbie yawned. It had been an exhausting surgery that evening. Wearily, he went to the door connecting his consulting room to the waiting room to check that it was empty. He was dismayed to find a little old lady seated quietly in the corner. Funny, he thought, he could have sworn she wasn’t there the last time he had looked.
“Please, madam, come this way,” he said to her.
She looked at him eagerly and pulled herself up from her chair. As she hobbled across the room, he tried to remember if he had ever seen her before. She didn’t look familiar, and he prided himself on knowing all his patients both by name and face.
He helped her to the seat in front of his desk and sat down opposite. “I don’t seem to recognise you,” he began. “Have you been to me before?”
The old woman fidgeted in her chair, making it creak slightly. “No, Doctor. I used to go to Dr Carmichael in Abbey Street, but he’s kicked the bucket and you were the nearest.”
Robbie smiled at her. She was shabbily dressed, but clean, and she had a vitality in her little black eyes that rather appealed to him. “So, let’s start by you telling me your name, dear.”
The woman cocked an eyebrow at him. “Well, as you might say, I don’t rightly know – not anymore, that is.”
Robbie’s heart sank. It was going to be a long night.
“I tell you, Bernie, she was a queer old fish.”
Robbie’s verdict on his encounter with his last patient that evening was delivered to his friend, as he sat in the vicarage study half an hour later.
“In what way, exactly?” asked Bernard, pouring his friend a glass of Glenfiddich.
“In every possible way. She came to me, she said, because she’s got the flu. But it was fictitious, I’m sure. Her chest was clear, and she had no obvious symptoms.”
Bernard sat down in his armchair and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Go on,” he encouraged. “I mean, what makes you say she was odd? After all, many old people are lonely, and they often come to people like you and me just for someone to talk to.”
“I know that, Bernie. I’ve had lots of old biddies wasting my time in that way. But this one was different,” Robbie persisted.
“Different? How?”
“Well, for one thing, she didn’t even know her own name,” said Robbie.
“Did she have amnesia, d’you think?” was Bernard’s not unreasonable suggestion.
“No, I don’t think that was it.” Robbie looked thoughtful as he cradled his whisky glass.
“What then?”
“There was this funny look on her face and a strange gleam in her eyes. I felt rather unsettled by her, actually.”
“You can’t be affected by how the poor woman looked, surely?” Bernard was puzzled. “I mean, she can’t help it if she’s got an unfortunate tic or something.”
“No, Bernie, it’s more than that. It’s what she said.”
“Said?”
“Yes. She said she was trying to find out who she was – or words to that effect.”
Bernard had a sudden thought as Robbie said this. Didn’t Mrs Harper mention something about an old woman hanging around the vicarage saying much the same thing? He voiced this thought to his friend.
“The same woman – bound to be,” said Robbie. “Anyway, I suggested that, if she didn’t know who she was, she should consult someone at Somerset House.”
“And what did she say to that?”
“Not a lot. Nothing, really. Just raised her eyebrows as if I was the umpteenth person to have suggested it. Probably she hasn’t got any kind of documentary information about her family, so Somerset House wouldn’t be able to help her, anyway.”
“Do you know where she lives?” asked Bernard.
“Yes – well, no, not exactly. She used to live in that big manor house opposite the common up until a few months ago. Some property developers offered her a lot of money for it, and she grabbed it. She said she’d always hated the place. She’d lived there all her life, apparently. Now she just dosses in doorways and on park benches, as far as I can gather.”
“Why on Earth would she do that if she’s got the money from the sale of the house?”
“Beats me,” said Robbie, sinking back in his chair with a sigh.
The autumn rain could be heard spattering persistently against the window, and the clock on the mantelpiece ticked on relentlessly. Otherwise all was quiet and peaceful inside the vicar’s study.
Suddenly Robbie broke the silence. “I’ve just had a thought,” he said animatedly. “Pure coincidence probably, but that young woman I told you about – with the strange Christian name – November
– she lives in that big manor house now with some other young people. The developers obviously did it up and rented it out to them.”
“That is a bit of a coincidence,” agreed Bernard, “but surely nothing more?”
“Of course,” said Robbie thoughtfully. “Nothing more.”
When Mrs Harper brought Bernard his elevenses the following morning, she had a telegram in her hand. “I think you’ve been waiting for this, Vicar,” she said, a twinkle in her eye.
He tore open the envelope and read it quickly. Then he smiled.
“Is it from Dorothy?” asked Mrs Harper eagerly. “Is she coming at last?”
“She is, Mrs Aitch,” he replied. “Is her room ready?”
“It is. Ready and waiting. I’ve given ’er the room at the back facing the garden. It looks ever so nice. I’ll get some flowers to put in there when I go shopping later.”
“Thanks, she’ll appreciate that,” said Bernard.
He remained lost in thought for several minutes, staring out of the window at the gloomy late October rain. Dorothy Plunkett. As a name, it wasn’t very romantic, but very English. He liked that. Very few people could get their tongues around his own. He wasn’t even sure how to pronounce it himself. The French way was best, he reckoned. Pal-toe-quay. That was how Dorothy always said it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I went to the doctor the other day, Mike.”
“Good, I kept telling you to go. Did he give you some sleeping pills?”
