Gabriel's Bay

by Robertson, Catherine

  Maybe she’d allow him one black mark? All right, he could get away with a glancing reference to Lord of the Rings. But if he showed any familiarity with its plotlines, then she’d be doing him a service by keeping him away. New Zealand didn’t need any more tourists who couldn’t look at a spectacular mountain scene without feeling it would be improved by the addition of orcs.

  The Skype interview was booked for one p.m., which, Mac calculated, was midnight UK time. Too bad. If he lacked stamina to pull all-nighters, he’d be useless as a GP.

  Doc Love had declined to participate. ‘No point,’ he said. ‘As you know, I have always ultimately deferred to your judgement.’

  Besides, he was out this afternoon on emergency house calls. Evan Olsen claimed he’d broken his toe by accidentally kicking the refrigerator door, and was lying like a cast sheep on his couch. Mac fancied a cattle prod would get him up, but luckily for Evan she wasn’t the one making the visit. She had more sympathy for Ed Tahana, who’d been in bad shape lately. Unlike chain-smoker Ngaire, Ed’s lung disease was none of his doing, and the poor sod was so incapacitated now he couldn’t do much more than sit at home in the living room. His poor lad, too — Ed could barely change his clothes, bathe or eat unless Barrett helped him. Mac knew that Doc Love had suggested respite care but that Barrett had refused. He said he wasn’t going to make his father feel like a burden.

  Barrett had come to fix the surgery security alarm last Friday afternoon. He seemed a bit distracted, dropped a screwdriver that skittered under Mac’s desk. After bending to retrieve it, Mac had asked how he was doing.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘A lot to juggle right now. But I’m keeping on top of things.’

  He’d pressed on the screwdriver’s edge with a fingertip, hard enough to raise a red mark on his skin.

  ‘You OK for money?’ said Mac. ‘Got enough for the bills, mortgage payments?’

  Barrett had smiled at her. He was a handsome lad all right. Should be dating pretty girls and enjoying being young. But life wasn’t fair, and there was no point railing against that. Life would only kick you in the arse even harder.

  ‘I’m doing what needs to be done,’ he told her.

  ‘I’ll assume that’s a positive,’ said Mac. ‘Remember you’ve got support here whenever you need it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  His face softened, and, for a moment, he’d looked about five years old. Then handsome, smiling Barrett was back, drumming the screwdriver against his palm with a jaunty beat.

  ‘Better get on,’ he said. ‘That alarm won’t fix itself.’

  But as he was leaving, he’d paused in the doorway. ‘Thank you for asking after me, Mrs Reid. Most people don’t.’

  No, they don’t, thought Mac. Because ignorance is bliss. Don’t look, don’t listen and you won’t be confronted by unpalatable truths. You won’t feel obliged to step up.

  Two minutes to one. Mac opened up Skype and waited. A burble, a pop, a face. Show-time.

  ‘Mrs Reid?’

  Ashwin Ghadavi was slim-faced and anxious-looking. Excellent bone structure and nice eyes, too, Mac noted. But no prizes for pretty.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Good day to you!’

  Mac nodded. Silence, in her experience, was an effective tactic, as most people felt compelled to fill the space. What this young man chose to fill it with would determine his immediate future.

  She saw his Adam’s apple bob with a nervous swallow, and ratcheted her expectations down another notch.

  ‘Thank you for considering my application,’ said Ashwin. ‘I know it might seem unusual for someone in my situation to make such a — let’s say left-field — career move. But let me assure you that I have given it a great deal of thought. In Britain, I have had many wonderful opportunities, but I find my temporary home a country of strange repressions and circumlocutory modes of speech. No one ever says precisely what he or she means. I give you an example: “When you have a moment” does not mean, as it implies, “Please do this when convenient”. It means, “Do it this instant”. “Quite good” means exactly the opposite!’

  He paused for a quick breath, carried right on.

  ‘Now, I know that some consider my country’s manner of communication in the English language to be equally long-winded, which one could blame on our prolonged period of British colonisation. But the difference is that we understand each other perfectly! There is no attempt to deceive! And that is what attracts me to your country — your directness, your open and plain manner. Australia, too, is known for its unvarnished speech, but having conducted research in several London pubs, I feel that it borders on harsh. New Zealanders, in my experience, are less free with the stinging rebarb.’

  Mac had to press her lips together to prevent a smile. The young man was clearly a fruitcake, but he had an earnest appeal. And who wanted strait-laced, anyway? All the best people had quirks.

  ‘Mrs Reid, I am sure you are thinking that this is a foolish complaint, childish even, and that would be a fair accusation.’

  Ashwin may have taken her lack of reponse as disapproval. More likely, he hadn’t noticed it at all, having, Mac suspected, prepared and rehearsed this speech for days.

  ‘So may I emphasise,’ he continued, ‘that it is not my only reason for wanting to move to your country—’

  The next one better not be anything to do with ringwraiths.

  ‘I wish to make a difference to a small community,’ said Ashwin. ‘In India, I grew up in a large city, and I have completed my training in an even larger one. Here in London, it is hard to know your neighbour, or even your flatmate, who plays in some kind of trip-hop band that performs to an erractic schedule, and of whom sometimes the only trace is the lid left off the Horlicks Original Malt Drink and a ring around the bath.’

  Mac had to look up at the ceiling and take a deep breath. She must not laugh. That’d be fatal.

  ‘I know you are asking, Mrs Reid: what about the famed British countryside?’

  On top of his many other skills, a mind-reader.

  ‘It is true, there are many delightful villages, with historic churches and tea shops,’ said Ashwin. ‘But although, as I say, I do appreciate the opportunities this fine country has given me, I am almost ashamed to admit that I do not see the charm of these places. They are too safe. Established. Socially regimented. And there is, if you’ll excuse my French, bugger all to do.’

  He took Mac’s raised eyebrows as encouragement to continue. Though she guessed he’d have pressed on even if a hooded assailant had crept up and started strangling her from behind.

  ‘I very much enjoy rock climbing,’ he informed her. ‘Also kayaking and hiking, which I gather you call tramping. I am adept with a camp stove. Keen also on surfing, though I am not at all adept at that. I would like to learn to sail, and to hunt wild game. I have heard that there are deer, chamois and even moose in your woods, which I gather you call the bush.’

  ‘You won’t find moose,’ said Mac. ‘None spotted since the nineteen fifties.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean they are not there! Your bush, I gather, is very dense.’

  A widening of eyes signalled he’d recollected his original point.

  ‘And your town, while surrounded by natural wonder, is exactly the kind of small community in which I would like to work.’

  OK, here it came: cheerful, humble folk time.

  ‘Please don’t mistake my enthusiasm for naïvety, Mrs Reid,’ said Ashwin.

  Maybe he was a mind-reader?

  ‘I am not expecting some bucolic idyll, where everyone is rosy-cheeked and salt of the earth. Hoedowns in the barn and all that.’

  Ashwin leaned in to the screen. Mac resisted a strong urge to mimic him, brought on by not knowing quite what he was going to say. Doc Love was like that, too. Kept you guessing.

  ‘I know there will be drug addicts and alcoholics, and criminal behaviour. There will be difficult patients who refuse to heed advice, and patients who are a
busive and ungrateful. I have seen and dealt with all of this — you may phone any of my references to check.’

  There were references? Mac realised she’d been so thrilled to get a half-decent applicant, she’d forgotten to do her due diligence.

  ‘I have taken up a lot of your time,’ came the young man’s voice across the miles. ‘And spoken for too long, an unfortunate trait that comes to the fore when I am nervous, though I assure you I am never nervous on the job. Do you have anything to ask me? I am sure you must have.’

  An almost plaintive tone. Questions meant she might still be interested. None meant she’d decided against him. He really did want this job, didn’t he?

  So — was she interested? Should she consider hiring Ashwin Ghadavi?

  ‘It’d be your responsibility to get proper work status,’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And find a place to live.’

  ‘I’ll make immediate enquiries.’

  ‘Start date’s not until next year. End of February.’

  ‘That would give me ample time to get my affairs in order here.’

  ‘I will check your references.’

  ‘I’d expect nothing less.’

  He was smiling. Mac felt like smiling, too. Why, for Pete’s sake? He was too young, too inexperienced, and a garrulous fruitcake who wanted to hunt non-existent moose.

  ‘I’ll email you the draft employment agreement,’ she said.

  Doc Love was due back at five. Mac used the absence of appointments to do the usual tasks of bookkeeping, filing and magazine cull. Occasionally, she also disinfected the toys. Not often. It was good to build up children’s immunity.

  She sorted the mail. The usual bills, waste-of-time marketing bumf from drug companies, begging letters from charities, and fat envelopes congratulating her on the prize she’d already won (‘Guaranteed!’). This month’s free copies of a healthy-eating magazine that no one in the surgery even glanced at, let alone took home.

  What was this one? An envelope in a particularly repellent shade of light purple and scented — Mac sniffed — with a hint of lavender. Had Sheila Swanson finally given in to her urges and sent Doc Love a proposal?

  Oh well, if she wanted her communication to be private, she should have sent it to his house.

  Mac read the letter. Read it again. Picked up the phone. Dialled Sidney’s mobile.

  ‘Elaine,’ was all she said.

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Sidney. ‘She’s changed her mind about Littleville and intends to make a massive donation?’

  ‘How about she’s just given us a heads up, on her own personal stationery no less, that the district council is about to send us forty thousand consents that we’ll need to apply for.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Resource, building, health and safety, approval for use of sensitive land—’

  ‘ “Sensitive” as in easily hurt by an offhand remark?’

  ‘Probably. In fact, I suspect they’ll all be spurious, but that’s beside the point,’ said Mac. ‘Officialdom is about to dump a giant steaming pile of bureaucracy on top of us, and even if we could find some poor sod to labour through endless applications, we can’t afford the fees. Elaine’s letter — a health hazard in itself with this amount of scent — helpfully lists them all. The total, underlined just in case we’re blind imbeciles, is in the thousands.’

  ‘But surely no one else has to jump through this many hoops?’ said Sidney. ‘Otherwise there’d be no tourist attractions at all.’

  ‘No, I think we’re the lucky targets of Elaine’s special blend of vindictiveness and self-importance,’ said Mac. ‘I blame Bernard. He should have stayed mum about his allegiance and worked against her from the inside.’

  ‘Does Kerry know?’ said Sidney.

  ‘No idea,’ said Mac. ‘But I wouldn’t put it past Elaine to prolong her glee and write to all of us individually. Have you checked your letterbox today?’

  ‘Not something I rush to do.’

  Sidney’s phone went ping.

  ‘A text from Kerry,’ she said. ‘With many exclamation marks.’ Another ping. ‘Oh, and one from Gene, with — hmm, a very bad word and an emoji I suspect is not standard issue. Seems your instincts were spot on about the prolonged glee. Gosh, she’s quite evil, isn’t she?’

  ‘Nothing a stake through the eyeball won’t fix,’ said Mac.

  ‘Group meeting tonight at the Boat Shed?’ said Sidney. ‘I’ll have to bring the boys.’

  Mac sighed. ‘I suppose we’d better get onto it,’ she said. ‘But everyone better appreciate the personal sacrifice I’m making.’

  ‘Heavens, yes, how could I forget?’ said Sidney. ‘Don’t worry, Gene has Sky. I’ll make sure he records Project Runway.’

  Chapter 28

  Bernard

  ‘That’s the eternal dilemma with “I told you so”,’ said Patricia over the breakfast table. ‘On the one hand, you’re quite correct — you did tell them. But on the other, the damage is done, and crowing won’t help fix it.’

  ‘And at least young Macfarlane took full responsibility for not heeding my advice,’ said Bernard. ‘Though I find his explanation that he believed “all she’d do is harrumph” somewhat flimsy.’

  ‘He doesn’t know Elaine like you do,’ said Patricia. ‘My goodness, she certainly will be “Elated” now.’

  She began to butter toast in her habitual slow, deliberate way. Normally, Bernard found it soothing. This morning, it irritated him. But then, to be fair, he had been irritable ever since Elaine had played her black hand, disguised as it was in a lavender-scented glove. The meeting yesterday evening at the Boat Shed had done nothing to alleviate his mood.

  ‘Why does she want to cause us all this trouble?’ young Macfarlane had asked.

  ‘Because she feels personally affronted,’ said Mac Reid. ‘Which is, of course, all Bernard’s fault.’

  Bernard had tried not to huff indignantly, and failed. ‘I do not see how—’

  ‘You threw off the shackles,’ said Mac Reid. ‘The pink fluffy manacles of oppression.’

  She patted him patronisingly on the arm.

  ‘Elaine prefers her creatures completely docile. You went from neutered lap-dog to rat-catcher before her eyes.’

  Back-handed as it was, Bernard decided to accept the compliment.

  ‘Right, so now we’ve got the recriminations out of the way,’ said Sidney Gillespie, who’d been struggling to find distractions for her surely abnormally active sons, ‘how do we come up with a brilliant plan?’

  But all the ideas put forward had been either impractical or imbecilic, leading to more recriminations and the meeting’s early end. Bernard had returned home and lain awake for some hours, muttering.

  ‘I’m driving into Hampton later this morning,’ said Patricia. ‘Would you like to come with me? We could have lunch at the Kozy Kettle. Or we could splash out at one of the vineyards?’

  ‘You know I’m visiting Woodhall this afternoon,’ said Bernard, more snappishly than he’d intended.

  ‘Ah.’ Patricia nodded. ‘Yes, of course. And how is Jonty coming along? Is he improving?’

  How to answer? Jonty was out of bed now during the day — he and Bernard met in his study — and had even begun to make calls to his former colleagues and clients, slowly reconnecting to the wider world. He had firm opinions on every subject Bernard raised, and did not care much to listen to Bernard’s own, overriding and interrupting, sometimes giving Bernard only enough time to open his mouth. (‘His Master’s Voice’, Patricia had once called him.) So in one sense of the word, yes, Jonty was improving. But he was also returning to form as an arrogant, patronising man with a streak of coldness and cruelty that most people mistakenly praised as astute ruthlessness. Every visit, Bernard remembered more about why he loathed him.

  ‘Jonty is making great strides,’ he replied shortly.

  Patricia spooned the teabag out of her cup and dropped it onto the saucer. It was
another of her habits that grated on Bernard. One, why use teabags at all when quality loose-leaf tea was readily available, and two, how could she tolerate it being that strong? The milk — put in after not before; Verity Weston would radiate scorn — barely altered the colour at all. It looked like a tanner was about to toss in a piece of raw hide.

  Patricia took a sip. ‘Meredith must be pleased.’

  That seemingly innocuous comment stabbed Bernard’s heart like an assassin’s stiletto. Over these past weeks, he had become used to taking tea with Meredith after his visits with Jonty. They were always alone. Boosted by an hour of patronising Bernard, Jonty would be eager to pick up the phone and patronise others. And young Macfarlane was out, too. Meredith had generously given him time off each afternoon so he could do whatever it was he claimed he did. Waste time and energy, in Bernard’s opinion.

  Though their talk had initially been formal, courteous, about inconsequential matters, they’d lately begun to regain some of the easy intimacy they’d had when young. Meredith began to make confessions to him — she felt guilty for not seeking help earlier for her husband, and regretted deeply the rift with Sophie, while struggling to see how it could be mended. She’d looked so unhappy, Bernard had ached to reach out and take her hand. A fear that even that slight physical contact might be his undoing prevented him, and so he comforted and reassured her as best he could.

  Last week, she’d told him that she suspected her grief over Nicola’s death had been more intense than she’d realised at the time, and while her husband had retreated from the world in dramatic fashion, Meredith had more quietly, but perhaps as comprehensively, withdrawn.

  ‘I locked myself away with my little house,’ she said. ‘Or lost myself in a far corner of the garden. Oh, yes, I still popped into town, still spoke to people, but I did all that on autopilot; I was never truly present. In fact, it’s only now that I feel I’m beginning to reclaim who I was, as if Jonty’s own recovery has given me permission.’