by Penny Parkes
After what felt like hours of listening to the minutiae of Mrs Fry’s ongoing battle with phlegm, Holly had only been saved by Mrs Fry’s other ongoing complaint – a bladder the size of a peanut. Whilst she sympathised with the old lady’s incontinence, Holly had also felt guiltily relieved as Mrs Fry had hared off to the ladies. She hadn’t liked to point out that all that coughing was probably doing wonders in strengthening those pesky pelvic floor muscles!
‘Right,’ muttered Holly under her breath, smoothing down her skirt yet again, as she reached Elsie’s house. ‘I am a doctor, she is my patient. It does not matter that she has won an Oscar or that she has quite possibly seen Sean Connery in his birthday suit . . . I am calm and professional and . . . shit, really quite late!’
She knocked on the glossy green door of Number 42, jumping as another intrusive gust of wind whooshed up her skirt, and glanced through the sash window to the side. The house was an absolute gem and Holly tried not to think about how much something like this would cost. Since renting the house in Orchard Lane, Holly had become obsessed with local property prices and how much she would have to squirrel away just to get a foot on the property ladder in such a desirable area.
Holly heard the sharp staccato beat of very high heels on a polished stone floor and the heavy front door was yanked open with force.
‘You’re late!’ said Elsie imperiously, fixing her with an uncompromising stare. Leaving the door open, Elsie walked back into the house, her hand trailing along each piece of furniture as she did so, whether for support or simply to remind herself that they were all still there, Holly wasn’t sure.
After hesitating for a moment on the doorstep, Holly stepped inside and followed, apologies on her lips, emerging from the dark hallway into a beautifully bright and sunny morning room at the back of the house. Elsie had laid out morning tea on a tray and there was a small toast rack of perfect brown triangles, jam and butter in tiny ramekins. The old lady had settled herself into a high-backed armchair and she waved carelessly at Holly to take a seat.
‘Ms Townsend, you didn’t need to go to all this trouble!’ exclaimed Holly, sliding obligingly into the appointed chair. Deprived of even a cup of coffee, as she had discarded outfit after outfit as unsuitable, Holly now felt light-headed and hollow. She flushed, ‘I’m so sorry to be late. I was rather, um, unavoidably detained.’
Elsie soundlessly poured her a cup of tea, adding a splash of milk, and holding it out for Holly to take. She nervously eyed the delicate porcelain cup that looked as fragile as a doll’s tea set in her hands. Holly gratefully took a sip, and carefully placed it on the table beside her, before she could possibly break it.
‘Well,’ Elsie said eventually, ‘firstly, it’s Elsie and secondly, I rather like morning tea and since Dan Carter thinks I need to have a babysitter, I thought we could enjoy the whole thing.’ She waved a hand regally. ‘We can always tick the boxes on your dreadful little forms later.’
She passed Holly a plate with a perfectly toasted crumpet, dripping with butter. ‘Now eat up and you can tell me all about the latest scandal. I imagine your arrival has set a few pulses racing at The Practice, to say the very least?’
Holly busied herself taking a bite of crumpet, wondering how on earth to respond.
‘Ah, the blushes rather give you away, my darling. You really need to work on your poker face or you’ll give the local gossips a field day. Is it the glorious Dr Carter who’s caught your attention then?’ enquired Elsie innocently, nibbling gently at a corner of toast.
‘Elsie,’ Holly remonstrated. ‘I’ve known Dan Carter since forever and besides, you seem to be forgetting that I’m married.’
Elsie shrugged lightly. ‘Married, yes. Dead? No. So drink your tea and when you’ve finished you can tell me all about your glorious morning romp?
Holly nearly choked on her crumpet. ‘My what?’
‘My dear girl,’ Elsie smiled at her benevolently, ‘I wasn’t born yesterday and it’s perfectly clear to me that you’re either running late after a lovely session of morning nookie or you’ve recently been flirting with someone out of bounds.’ This last was delivered in a stage whisper, laced with delighted merriment. ‘Now, my late husband, Arthur – not the last one, the one before – he was always up for a morning tumble. I’m more of an afternoon person myself,’ she said thoughtfully, trailing off mid-sentence. ‘Anyway, you’ve clearly been having a lovely time and I’m terribly bored, my darling, so I thought the least you could do was entertain me.’
Holly swallowed the last crumbs of the crumpet and licked her sticky fingers, earning a raised eyebrow from Elsie and causing the blood to rush to Holly’s cheeks again.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Elsie. I feel terribly pedestrian even saying it now, but I was late because the twins wouldn’t get dressed and then I had a little wardrobe malfunction myself.’
‘Ah of course . . . la vie domestique! So draining, no? But then all the more reason to find passion in your work?’
Holly couldn’t help but smile. Elsie was so delightfully, deliberately eccentric. She also seemed determined to converse as though they had known each other for ages. Holly admitted defeat, under Elsie’s enquiring gaze. ‘If you must know, the only feathers I’ve managed to ruffle at The Practice seem to be Dr Channing’s. I don’t think she’s terribly pleased with me.’
‘Of course she won’t be,’ Elsie replied gleefully. ‘She’s beautiful and clearly very intelligent, but she has a very brittle quality, don’t you think? All terribly ice maiden and by all accounts, a total bitch.’
‘Elsie!’ said Holly, shocked but also trying not to laugh.
Elsie waved away her protests. ‘Let’s call a spade a spade at least. She is not a very kind woman. An excellent doctor, no doubt, but she comes with baggage that one, I promise you. Now you, on the other hand,’ Elsie looked at Holly appraisingly, ‘you come with baggage of a different kind.’
Holly slowly drained her teacup, suddenly wrong-footed by the turn of conversation. She’d come here to assess Elsie for goodness’ sake, not for a session of psychoanalysis.
‘I can assure you that my life is terribly mundane and there are no fabulous skeletons tucked away anywhere.’ Holly mentally discounted Milo’s issues as she spoke, but it was clear she wasn’t fooling anyone.
‘We’ll see,’ said Elsie. ‘Perhaps that’s something I can help you with? A wife should always have two things, in my opinion, Holly Graham: some running-away money and someone who admires them from afar. I suspect that those two things alone, might give you a little more confidence in both your abilities and your attractiveness.’
Holly said nothing, her mind running in confusing loops as Elsie’s words carried a certain resonance. She could certainly identify with the need for financial independence from Milo, even if the notion of an admirer seemed a little ridiculous.
It was as though Elsie was reading her mind, as she leaned forward and took Holly’s hand. ‘I’m too old and too nosey to stand on ceremony, Holly. I know, I know, we’ve barely met, but please – let me help you a little, while you’re so sweetly helping me. There simply isn’t time to make all one’s own mistakes in life, so please do feel free to learn from mine.
‘Cheating husbands are my speciality. And when it comes to money? Well, let’s just say that I do know what I’m talking about,’ she said firmly, gazing around her stunningly decorated room. ‘All of this, you see, came from Husband Number Four, after Husband Number Three cleaned me out. All my movie money, all my life savings . . . All quite, quite gone. That was Arthur, he of the morning glory, but I will say this,’ she gave Holly a frank stare, ‘he may have been a useless bastard with money, but by God, he made me happy.’
Holly could have sworn that Elsie winked at her lasciviously, but when she looked again she was sipping tea, one little finger outstretched, as if butter wouldn’t melt.
Holly tucked her hair back behind her ears and watched her patient. Dan had sent her here to a
ssess Elsie for dementia and Alzheimer’s. Maybe it was Dan who was losing the plot, because from where Holly was sitting, Elsie looked as sharp as a tack. She fumbled in her bag, completely unnerved, and took out her notebook, where she was supposed to write down all her observations about Elsie to add to her evaluation file.
‘Ah!’ said Elsie, clearly disappointed. ‘I see we’ve moved on to the professional part of our visit. No matter. There’s plenty of time for us, Holly. I’m always here when you need me.
‘But, you know, Holly, I’m sure Dr Carter does know what he’s talking about, but I really don’t think I am losing my marbles. Que sera, sera,’ she sighed. ‘Maybe there are benefits to this Alzheimer’s business anyway? You know, always meeting new people, hiding your own Easter eggs . . .’
For all her witty comments, Elsie seemed to have withdrawn into herself a little at the sight of the forms and Holly felt bad for cutting her off mid-flow. She couldn’t account for how Elsie was making her feel. It was as though Elsie had 20:20 vision where Holly’s life was concerned and Holly didn’t feel quite strong enough to hear any more home truths this morning; not after last night.
‘Let’s just get this bit done, Elsie, and then we can have another cup of tea.’
Holly ticked her way through the boxes, without a word. She could see without asking that Elsie was perfectly able to dress and feed herself, she could probably stand up for herself too, if anyone gave her any of this Alzheimer’s nonsense. Holly noted again Dan’s scribbled note about her nocturnal wanderings and tried to rouse Elsie from her slump.
‘So, no more daffodils in the Market Place?’ Holly smiled at her, feeling awful for having brought the pall of reality down on her lovely morning tea party.
‘No,’ Elsie sighed. ‘Nobody really liked the daffodils.’ Her sad face made Holly feel even worse, until the flicker of mischief flashed briefly in Elsie’s beautiful eyes. ‘I shall have to think of something a little more entertaining next time.’
Holly grinned. ‘Maybe we could have a little outing one morning?’
Elsie sipped her tea and looked wistful. ‘Now that would be nice. I only really go out for hospital appointments and funerals these days. Well, and the occasional dinner party of course, but I suspect we could have fun together you and I. It would probably do you good to be led astray a little.’
Holly had accepted one last refill and then ducked away to use the loo before heading back to work. There was something about Elsie that she couldn’t put her finger on. She was lively, she was fun and she was certainly insightful, but there was a sadness to her that Holly couldn’t place. She was already looking forward to getting to know Elsie better. Another perk of local practice, she thought as she headed down the hallway to find the smallest room. Pushing open the door, Holly couldn’t help but laugh out loud. The smallest room in Elsie’s house happened to be illuminated by a crystal chandelier and the loo roll holder appeared to be Elsie’s Oscar statuette. The irreverence of the gesture had Elsie written all over it.
After washing her hands, still with a smile on her face, Holly had somehow managed to take a wrong turn out of the loo, though, because instead of arriving back with Elsie in the morning room, she walked into a stunning kitchen extension instead.
The units were made from limed oak and the worktops from jet-black granite, but it wasn’t the fixtures and fittings that caught Holly’s attention. ‘Oh shit,’ she muttered, as her gaze took in the chaos and the smile slipped from her lips. On every surface, there were cups, vases and jam jars filled with milk. Even an egg cup or two had been pressed into service.
Elsie appeared at Holly’s elbow and rolled her eyes. ‘Such a bore, isn’t it?’
‘Hmm?’ said Holly succinctly.
‘Well, the milkman says that I’m to rinse the bottles and put them back out for him to collect. But I can’t possibly drink all that milk in one day, so I’ve had to adapt.’
Holly watched her flitting around the kitchen, tidying the jars and bottles into rows. She felt suddenly wretched to find that Dan Carter might not be so wide of the mark after all.
‘I think you should probably keep the milk in the fridge, Elsie,’ she said gently. ‘And I’m sure the milkman wouldn’t mind if you only put the bottle out once you’d finished.’
Elsie fluttered her fingers at Holly, ‘I can’t possibly keep it all in the fridge, silly girl.’ She swung open the door of the enormous refrigerator. ‘That’s where I keep my make-up.’
Holly’s phone buzzed in her pocket and she knew it was Grace wondering where on earth she’d got to. There was probably a room full of patients waiting to be seen, but Holly still felt awful about leaving Elsie alone. She’d helped her tidy away the milk and organise the fridge to leave a little space for food, but she wasn’t really sure what to do next. Holly knew she should probably put in a full report to Dan, but she and Jason had been asked to do a week’s evaluation and it was only day two. Where was the harm in waiting? And at least it was Dan she’d be reporting to, who was certainly the more human of the doctors when it came to making judgement calls. Holly sighed, rather wishing she’d just stayed and had tea and left none the wiser. You certainly couldn’t help having a certain admiration for Elsie and she didn’t want to see her unhappy.
It was exactly this scenario that Henry Bruce had warned her about, wasn’t it? Becoming emotionally involved with one’s patients could only cloud objective judgement. Simply put, did Holly like Elsie too much to write the report that needed to be written? She sighed, torn with indecision.
Elsie laid her head against Holly’s shoulder as they stood, putting the finishing touches to the new fridge layout. ‘I love my home. Don’t you? I think it sums up everything I’ve ever been and everywhere I’ve ever gone. My life is here.’ She turned to cup Holly’s face with her hand, reaching to do so. ‘You do understand that, don’t you, my darling girl? You understand what I’m asking of you?’
Chapter 12
Holly logged into her computer and checked her afternoon schedule. It was all very well George insisting that The Practice offer Saturday clinics, but Holly couldn’t help noticing that, even in the scant few weeks until his retirement, George wasn’t actually down to do any of them. Having said that, with just Dan, herself and one of the nurses working this afternoon, the atmosphere in the building was noticeably calmer.
Even just the clip-clopping of Julia’s heels, or Henry’s none-too-discreet lifts, had the capacity to set Holly’s nerves a little on edge already. It was like the warning music that started up in movies to put you on your guard.
She could hear the low murmur of Dan’s voice through the wall, his easy bedside manner something to aspire to. She took a sip of water, marshalling her thoughts away from Elsie Townsend, and walked through to the waiting room.
‘Stevie Roberts,’ she said, immediately struck by the young boy’s appearance. He was scrawny and pale, looking much younger than his seven years. ‘Hi Stevie, Mr Roberts. I’m Dr Graham, come on through with me and we can have a chat.’
She noticed that the boy was almost green and was carrying an empty Tupperware container just in case. Occasionally he would dab at his mouth with a bloody tissue. Settling him up on the treatment bed, she could see that his little skinny legs were strangely mottled.
His eyes bugged out a little, which might suggest a thyroid problem, but for some reason Holly’s mind had immediately gone in another, more unlikely direction. She had half a mind to call Dan in for a second opinion. She’d had a patient in Reading once, who’d lived solely on croissants and Nutella, who had then presented with similar symptoms. Or perhaps she was leaping to conclusions and the poor lad had an absorption problem . . .
Was it possible that she’d gone from miniature cucumber sandwiches at Elsie’s, to a seven-year-old boy with scurvy in mere minutes?
Welcome to Middle England, she thought. She quietly checked all his vitals, murmuring reassuringly as she did so.
She’d noted the boy�
��s address when she opened up his file: the Pickwick Estate.
When people mentioned the Pickwick Estate in Larkford, they tended to do so with a certain grimace and a tilt of the head. The Pickwick Estate was Larkford’s dirty little secret, never mentioned in any tourist guide, tucked away behind the small industrial estate that also housed the bus depot and the tile warehouse.
Out of sight and out of mind for most of the local residents, unless they happened to have their car broken into or their wallet snatched, when all eyes suddenly turned to the residents of Dickens Drive. There was no dressing it up with fancy literary names – this was social housing at its most basic. And, since half the residents could probably only muster a reading age of nine or ten, the fancy street names meant little more to them than the A36.
Holly knew from her interview that it was a source of continual aggravation to both Dan and George that there wasn’t more being done to help the residents there.
Lizzie actually had a theory that the council were actively trying to persuade the tenants to move elsewhere, for the land must surely be worth a fortune now for its development opportunities. Instead, the four-storey sixties blocks crouched there in a grid pattern, with only the odd tree to break up the concreted expanse, where the residents’ children kicked a football around. Hardly local planning’s finest hour.
Dan had asked Holly to support his plans to make the health education of Larkford’s children a priority. He wanted to restart the series of workshops he had run in the local school, focusing on diet and exercise for the younger ones, and sex education and alcohol awareness for the seniors. The school had been amazingly supportive the first time round, but some of the parents had complained and that was the end of that. Seeing this poor lad, made Holly think that the restart was long overdue.
She perched in front of the boy on a stool and gently palpated his calf muscles. Stevie pulled his leg away and began to cry quietly. ‘It ’urts when you do that,’ he whimpered in his strong Somerset accent.
