by Penny Parkes
‘Talk to me about what you have for breakfast then, Stevie . . .’ Holly said as she softly counted the boy’s pulse rate under her breath.
Stevie immediately looked wary and glanced nervously over at his father, who was quietly sitting by the desk, fiddling with his mobile. Holly was astonished at the total lack of interest he was exhibiting in his son’s medical exam. She was rather more accustomed to the helicopter mothers, who hovered around, endlessly peppering questions during an examination.
Since his father didn’t actually seem to be paying any attention at all, Stevie clearly felt a little bolder and spoke up, ‘My teacher at school said I ’ad to come in and see you, coz my legs ’urt when I run and all the other boys are bigger than me. I get two pieces of toast at the Breakfast Club though – coz I’m little.’
‘Well, I’m really glad you did come in today, Stevie. Let’s see what we can do to make you feel a bit better, shall we?’ Holly reassured him. ‘And well done your clever teacher for sorting it out. Now, after you’ve had some toast at the Breakfast Club at school, what do you have then, for the rest of the day?’
Stevie outlined his lunch of chips and beans, and the occasional egg in the school canteen, with the odd Mars bar thrown in for good measure. ‘That sounds a lot like my boys’ favourite lunch,’ said Holly gently, ‘but sometimes they like to have a really big glass of orange juice with it. Do you like orange juice, Stevie?’
Stevie shook his head again. ‘I like orange lollies though.’ He grinned widely and Holly tried not to show her shocked reaction at the state of poor Stevie’s gums. Bloody and sore, there were gaps where his little milk teeth had fallen out early, since his rotten gums were too spongy to cope.
After they’d quickly established that supper at home consisted of a Nutella sandwich on white bread, Holly was quite convinced by her tentative diagnosis. She turned to Stevie’s father. ‘Mr Roberts? We need to take a little blood from Stevie to send off to the lab. It won’t hurt,’ she reassured Stevie, noticing him stiffen, ‘but it will give us a much better idea of how to treat him. The most important thing, Mr Roberts, is that we talk about Stevie’s diet and make sure that he’s getting enough vitamins and minerals to keep him healthy.’
‘You try buying fancy food on what me and Cathy earn,’ he answered defensively.
‘Well, that’s something we can explore with the Health Visitor once the test results are back,’ Holly replied, wanting this lad’s father to take the situation seriously.
‘Health Visitor? What’s that, some kind of social worker?’ ‘No, no. Just one of our team who will help Stevie, and you and Cathy, learn about economical ways to improve his diet.’ Spotting immediately that Mr Roberts was none too enamoured with this plan of action, Holly changed tack. ‘Stevie is severely malnourished, Mr Roberts. He’s a very poorly little boy.’
‘Just as well I brought him in then,’ said Mr Roberts. Barely into his twenties, the father looked just as peaky and underfed as his son, acne pitting his complexion. ‘Can’t you just give him some medicine? His prescriptions are free, aren’t they?’
Holly sighed. ‘Obviously we can give him some supplements of key vitamins to help him recover, but he needs a good diet every day to get him well.’ Holly’s eyes flickered to the clock on the desk. ‘If you’d both like to come with me, we’ll see if Jade is available to do some of the tests now and have a chat with you about meal planning. Perhaps you could call Stevie’s mum and she could come down and join you?’
Stevie shook his head. ‘Mummy’s asleep in the day.’
‘Okay,’ said Holly calmly, her mind immediately leaping to assumptions of wild partying, drugs and alcohol.
Stevie chattered on blithely as they gathered up his coat and his just-in-case bowl. ‘She works all night, sleeps in the mornings when I’m at school and goes to college on Thursdays. My mummy’s going to be a Sec-ret-ury,’ he sounded out proudly. ‘She’s only a cleaner at the moment, but she says it’s a shit job and I should work hard at school.’ He gave her another devastating grin and Holly felt a hot wave of middle-class guilt wash over her.
‘Thanks, Doc,’ Mr Roberts managed, determinedly avoiding her gaze. ‘It’s been a bit tricky since I got laid off,’ he muttered defensively and guided his son towards the Nurses’ desk, ruffling his hair affectionately.
Holly began to second-guess herself, wondering whether Mr Roberts’ odd behaviour had more to do with embarrassment than the lack of interest she’d simply assumed.
‘Jadey-wadey!’ exclaimed Stevie in delight when he saw Jade, minuscule uniform straining at the bust. ‘Are you going to do my blood zam?’
Holly paused at the Nurses’ desk, watching Jade scoop up young Stevie and promise him a sticker if he was good.
‘How does Stevie know Jade?’ she asked Mr Roberts in surprise.
‘Jade?’ he said. ‘Oh, she lives in the flat next door. Been neighbours all our lives.’
Holly was then forced to re-evaluate her opinions for the third time that day. It wasn’t terribly PC, but if Jade had managed to get all her nursing qualifications whilst growing up on the Pickwick Estate, Holly had a whole new respect for her. Putting aside the indecently short skirt, Holly felt that anyone motivated enough to work so hard in such tricky circumstances had to really, really want it.
Holly was beginning to wonder when she’d stop peeling back the layers of this little town. It was surprising her and challenging her assumptions daily.
Larkford was so much more than the sum of its parts and Holly decided it was the perfect antidote to the pessimistic and judgemental thoughts that had been plaguing her more and more of late. It was actually rather refreshing to have one’s eyes opened again.
Afternoon clinic finally finished some three hours later and Holly was on her way to grab a quick glass of water when she spotted the noticeboard. The Larkford Gazette article about Dan’s Friday night rescue was now sellotaped to the wall. Under the headline, ‘Peanut Tragedy Averted’, ran two photos – the rather professional one of Dan making him look intense and brooding. The other photo was clearly a family snap of a young, laughing woman, with sleek bobbed hair and wide shining eyes.
Holly couldn’t help but laugh at speech bubbles now drawn, coming out of the girl’s mouth saying: ‘Dr Dan, my hero, I wuv you, kissy kissy kissy . . .’
The handwriting looked an awful lot like Taffy’s.
She also noted that under the ‘Worried about alcohol?’ poster, that same hand had written . . . ‘Then worry no more – The Kingsley Arms is now open at lunchtime too . . .’
She wandered into the office and found the man himself sitting at Grace’s desk. ‘I’ve just been admiring your notice-board, Dr Jones.’
He looked up and smiled innocently. ‘My noticeboard?’
Holly gave him a sideways look. ‘You have distinctive penmanship. The little swirls on your y’s?’
‘Oops,’ Taffy mumbled. ‘Sorry,’ he added, looking anything but contrite.
‘What are you up to anyway?’ asked Holly with a smile. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you look highly suspicious there, Dr Jones.’
Taffy clicked on the screen-saver and stood up quickly from Grace’s desk, perching on the edge to give Holly his undivided attention. He was wearing a peculiar tweed jacket and carried a pair of tortoiseshell glasses tucked into his breast pocket. He grinned and waggled his eyebrows, which seemed somehow bushier than usual. ‘Do I look mysterious and debonair?’
‘Erm . . .’
‘Handsome and alluring?’
‘We-ll . . .’
Taffy struck a pose against the desk, one luxuriant eyebrow firmly wedged up into his hairline. ‘Masculine and mystifying? Don’t keep me in suspenders, Graham. Give me the truth – I can handle it.’
Holly wrinkled her nose as she tried to alight on the perfect description, trying not to laugh. ‘The truth? Crikey! Well, to be honest, you either look like you’re in the early stages of a stroke, or you’ve got really ba
d wind. Were you aiming for something different?’
Taffy caught up her hand and landed an enormous kiss on the inside of her wrist. ‘Ah – the truth – she is a fickle mistress.’ Holly couldn’t help but notice that he was still holding her hand as he ran an assessing eye over her body, before appraising her like a vintage Claret. ‘Yes, yes, full bodied, supple though. I’m getting blackcurrant and a hint of scepticism too. Excellent depth of flavour, great legs – that’s a proper wine term you know, Graham – smooth, yet playful. Yes, a cheeky, bold little number, I think.’
Holly was speechless for a moment, until Taffy accidentally knocked the mouse and the computer screen beside him sprang into life. ‘How To Fake It As A Wine Connoisseur’ read the title, along with a list of adjectives and phrases.
‘Is there something you’d like to share with the group there, Taffy?’ managed Holly, laughing, as she prayed for her heart rate to calm down. Surely, Taffy could feel her pulse racing against his fingers, where he still, bizarrely, continued to gently hold her wrist, throwing her completely. Whereas only moments before she’d been happy, confident to banter a little and join in the fun, now she found herself speechless.
‘A vintage year, I think,’ said Taffy, his voice suddenly quiet and intimate. He ran his thumb in small circles along the delicate skin at Holly’s wrist and held her gaze, no longer joking around, but looking into her eyes intently. ‘Definitely one to be savoured, don’t you think?’
The air stilled in the office as Holly’s mind lunged around uselessly for a witty comeback, not entirely convinced that this last comment was still part of Taffy’s dodgy wine persona. ‘What . . . ? Who . . . ?’ she managed eloquently, no longer sure what game they were playing.
‘Right now? Just me,’ replied Taffy, looking for all the world as though he was about to lean in and kiss her.
Holly’s pulse beat a quickening tattoo against Taffy’s muscular yet gentle grip, as she willed her mind to calm.
The office door swung open with a whoosh of cold air. It was enough to pull Holly to her senses. She reclaimed her wrist reluctantly, catching the flare in Taffy’s eyes as she did so.
‘Brilliant!’ said Dan loudly, making them both flinch a little. ‘I see you’ve introduced Holly to Reginald Fortesque Esquire – wine buff, petanque champion and amiable raconteur. What do you think of Taffy’s alter ego, Holls?’
Taffy recovered more quickly than she did, adopting a mock Etonian accent and dislodging his eyebrow from its elevated position. ‘Of course, my darling, I use wine all the time when I am cooking. Sometimes, yes sometimes, I even add it to the food.’
‘He’s fabulous fun,’ continued Dan. ‘Any night out with Reggie here always ends well, doesn’t it, Taff? Give me five to get changed and then Holly can meet Professor Ludo Gartner too. Then we’ll be off, okay?’ Dan disappeared from view leaving Holly feeling oddly deflated. The earlier tension in the room, that had felt so pleasing and intoxicating, now had the bitter twist of leftover wine.
‘I had no idea you were such an aficionado in the wine department,’ said Holly quietly, purely for want of anything better to say.
Taffy shrugged. ‘I know what I like, Holly. The trick is to always ignore what it says on the label.’
There was a moment’s pause when Holly wished that, as in many other areas of her life right now, people came with subtitles and subtext clearly explained. She didn’t want to think what label Taffy might apply to her particular vintage.
‘Who’s Professor Ludo What’s-his-face?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Ah, well.’ Taffy looked uncomfortable. ‘You’re either going to think we’re quite mad or tragically entertaining . . . The thing is, a while ago, Dan was feeling a bit down and he didn’t want to go out. Ever. So, I made up these two older guys – quite successful, terribly confident, bit of a caricature, and we dressed up as them and went to a party in Bristol. Best party ever.
‘Anyway, long story short, it’s become a thing we do. We get to completely let our hair down and let off steam – we get to say outrageous things and just have a very silly, extremely childish time. And, mainly, well, it seems to help Dan too. He gets to step outside his head for a little while. That’s the real win.’
Holly looked at Taffy in his bonkers tweed ensemble, his eyes full of warmth and fun.
Taffy squirmed a bit under her gaze. ‘Go on – you can say it – you think we’re too old to play silly buggers.’
‘Actually,’ said Holly with an affectionate smile, ‘I was just thinking how lucky Dan is to have a friend like you. And that, next time, if I’m not intruding – maybe I could come too?’
Taffy/Reggie – she wasn’t sure who – leaned forward and scooped up the weight of her hair from the nape of her neck. His warm breath fanned her cheek as he stayed in character, polished vowels and all. ‘I think you would have to come as a struggling Russian violinist. Katerina Shovoffski perhaps?’ His eyes twinkled pure merriment. ‘I am longing to hear your nocturnes and perhaps a little adagio, a slow pas de deux?’
This time there was no mistaking the double entendre in Taffy’s words, but his lightness of tone and the grin on his face left Holly feeling comfortable, that this could just as easily be the welcoming hand of friendship, as a mischievous flirtation.
‘Ah, but then, I am forgetting, no doubt the beautiful Katerina would tell me to Shovoffski?’ Taffy gave her a gentle nudge.
Holly shook her head and groaned at his terrible pun, as Dan came back in, wearing pleated slacks and a purple cravat. ‘You old boys have fun this evening, then,’ Holly said.
‘But ov course,’ said Dan in a comedy German accent that was so appalling, Holly couldn’t believe anyone fell for it. ‘Vot else would we do at the Annual Bristol Vintners’ Convention?’
Taffy picked up an ivory-handled cane from beside the desk and twirled it in his fingers. ‘Go work on your violin, Katerina, and maybe next time you too can try out Dr Jones’ Patented Cure of Distraction.’
It didn’t seem terribly likely, thought Holly, as the door swung closed behind them, that Dr Jones’ panacea would be quite so effective when distracting her from her own wayward thoughts – particularly the X-rated ones pertaining to the good doctor himself.
Chapter 13
As nine o’clock rolled around on Sunday morning, Holly tried to get dressed, as the twins emptied her underwear drawer with intense concentration, fuelled by scrambled eggs and with the energy of the Duracell bunnies. She ignored the flashes of rose-coloured silk and wisps of creamy lace that the boys were tossing around her bedroom delightedly and rescued only a pretty camisole to cover the simple t-shirt bra that formed the mainstay of her weekend wardrobe these days.
The boys had quite the selection to play with, as Milo’s obsession with expensive undies meant that Holly always knew what she was getting for Christmas. Obviously, she’d tried discussing present ideas with him on many occasions. Even none-too-subtle pointers that, since having two babies come out the sunroof, she wasn’t really up for prancing around in wispy thongs that didn’t even cover her C-section scar. French knickers? Lovely. Sexy silky camisole? Fantastic. But no, Milo wasn’t a man to take suggestions. These days, he wasn’t a man to compromise full stop. He liked his world to be the way he wanted it to be, the way it had always been, as he tried to control all the players as if they were characters in his latest book.
Tom toddled over to her and threw his arms tightly around her legs, before she scooped him up for a cuddle. He grinned at her delightedly, pulling at her top as he always did, as he pressed his tiny body against her. ‘Mmmm, squidgy Mummy,’ he breathed.
Holly shook her head with a smile. There was no point correcting him and, while the twins found her new, softer figure the perfect cuddle spot, she knew that Milo despaired of ever having his sleek, perfectly groomed wife back. In all honesty, the very fact that this bothered him quite as much as it did, gave Holly additional incentive to avoid jumping on the Weight Watchers bandwagon
with all the other mums. In fact, even just thinking about it made her fancy a defiant chocolate Hobnob or three.
Logically, she knew that the constant stress and exhaustion were contributing just as much as the Hobnobs to her stubborn little cortisol muffin-top. Constantly on the verge of Fight or Flight, the stress hormones were flooding her system and storing up the podge for emergencies . . . Holly sighed, thinking that maybe she knew a little too much about how the human body worked – it rather took the mystery out of life.
She could hear Milo now, singing in the shower, and she hurriedly pulled on her jeans before the water stopped and before he emerged as always, still honed and perfect, with his lightly stubbled chin and searching for his trendy media specs.
Since the boys were still happily entertaining themselves with La Perla bras as jaunty deerstalkers, she pulled out what remained of her eyeliner and quickly smudged a charcoal line around her eyes. Blinking hard as she poked herself in the eye, Holly decided that a shopping trip to Boots was in order, as what remained of her sorry excuse for make-up was fast becoming a health hazard.
Tom pulled himself on to her lap and stroked her cheek adoringly. ‘Pretty Mummy. We go swings?’ he asked.
‘We’ll see, but we have to go to the supermarket first. And you two have to be good, okay? What do you think, Ben? Do you want to go on the big swing today?’
Only on a Sunday could she really take her time to enjoy these leisurely moments, because the rest of the week was spent dashing to get everyone dressed and fed and at Nursery before morning surgery began at 8:00. Of course, due to the perversity of parenthood, the faster you needed everybody to move, the longer everything took, with many a morning completely derailed by a last-minute tantrum. Every morning seemed to be spent constantly clock-watching, making sure she stayed on schedule. It made her feel happier to know that, even with a cleaner and her lovely husband Will, Lizzie’s mornings were also chaos.
