Out of Practice

by Penny Parkes

  Thankfully, there was nothing like General Practice to focus the mind. She looked up as Mrs Brent and her little boy, who appeared to be picking his nose and munching the bogies, walked in. Taffy’s definitions tickled the edge of her mind and she very nearly typed FLK and NFS into his notes, just stopping herself in time. Little Jimmy Brent may be a Funny Looking Kid and he probably was Normal For Swindon, but that didn’t mean she should be anything less than professional.

  ‘Right,’ she said, trying to pull herself together, ‘let’s have another talk about sorting this constipation, shall we, Jimmy? The three most important things that you and your mum need to remember are to drink lots of water, eat lots of fruit and vegetables and make the time to sit on the loo regularly – even if you don’t think you need to go. We’ll train that body of yours to remember what it’s supposed to do naturally.’

  Jimmy puckered his face in disgust. ‘I don’t like fruit and water tastes gross. Can I have Coke?’

  Julia took a deep breath. ‘Water is best. Squash is fine and fruit juice is fine in moderation. All those sugary drinks will do you no good at all. They’re really bad for your teeth anyway.’

  Jimmy pulled his rubbery lips wide and Julia tried not to show how stunned she was at the sheer number of fillings in this child’s mouth.

  ‘But he does like his Coke, Dr Channing. Always have done, haven’t you, Jimmy? He used to have it in his bottle when he was little,’ Mrs Brent interrupted. ‘And it hasn’t done you any harm, has it, Jimmy? He’s got lots of energy you know.’

  Julia’s grip tightened on the edge of her desk and her knuckles turned white. She just wasn’t in the mood to put up with this shit today, or lack of shit as the case may be, she thought hysterically. She took a calming sip from her coffee cup, vaguely noticing the flaking nail polish on her manicured fingers. Maybe this was it? Today would be the day she started cracking up and began the inevitable slide into becoming her mother? She certainly could murder a strong G&T about now and it was barely 4 p.m. She took a deep breath and then another. If it was one thing her mother had shown her, time and time again, it was that alcohol was never the answer.

  ‘Mrs Brent, Jimmy, you need to understand that your body is like a machine. If you put the wrong fuel in your car, it won’t run properly, will it? So, if you fill your body with fizzy, sugary drinks, it will rot your teeth and you will get even more fillings. You will also find that, if you can find a way to fit more fruit and vegetables into your daily diet, you won’t end up being so constipated that your bottom bleeds. None of which, I hope you understand, is good for you.’

  Mrs Brent shrugged. ‘Can’t you just give us some more of those laxatives that Dr Bruce prescribed? They worked wonders, didn’t they, Jimmy? Although we did have a few mad dashes to the loo,’ she laughed.

  Jimmy coloured red with embarrassment, remembering only too well how the boys at school had taunted him for weeks when he’d filled his pants at school. He shot his mother a furious look. ‘I’d quite like to try something different,’ he mumbled. ‘And I’m fed up of my bum hurting.’

  Julia looked from mother to son. As a seven-year-old boy, Jimmy could only have known what his parents had chosen to tell him and his mother clearly didn’t have a clue about nutrition. Mrs Brent’s skin was pocked with acne and her stomach lay like an apron in folds across her lap.

  Julia felt a prickle of discomfort across her throat as she remembered how disparaging she’d been about Dan’s plan to introduce nutritional counselling for their patients. His plan had been to help their younger patients, with a particular emphasis on the residents of the blighted Pickwick Estate. He’d wanted to do a few fun workshops, pop into the school and give the kids a little responsibility for their own health, rather than rely on the frankly sketchy information some of them were getting from their parents. Julia realised with a hot flush of shame that she’d shot him down, citing a waste of time and funds, to what she’d considered to be a lost cause.

  She glanced down at Jimmy’s food diary for the last week and sighed. It was all burgers and chips and Coke. The only vitamin that had made its way through was a glass of orange juice at a friend’s house. Even at school, he’d managed to dodge the salad bar and fruit bowl.

  ‘Okay, Jimmy, here’s what we’ll do for now. I’ll prescribe some Mobilium that should help soften your poo and get things moving gently. And you will promise me to have at least four big glasses of water a day and five pieces of fruit and vegetables. Every day, Jimmy. And I want you to use this chart.’

  She opened out the leaflet she’d unearthed and Jimmy giggled.

  ‘It’s called Choose Your Poo,’ she explained, pointing out the illustrations that were in the chart. ‘You need to write in this little table whether your poo looks like rabbit droppings, or a bunch of grapes, or chicken nuggets or here, like corn-on-the-cob.’

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ Mrs Brent interrupted looking faintly disgusted.

  ‘Yes,’ said Julia bluntly. ‘Jimmy needs help and we need a better idea of how the medication is working, or not, as the case may be.’ She turned her attention back to Jimmy who was happily entranced by the illustrations of all seven categories of Poo.

  ‘The Bristol Stool Guide,’ he spelled out. ‘Can I colour it in?’

  ‘If that’s what you’d like. As long as you fill it in every time you go to the loo. And look, you can mark here when you’ve had a drink and when you’ve had a healthy snack.’ She focused her comments on Jimmy now, because even at such a young age, he was clearly more interested in his health than his mother was. Although Julia acknowledged, it could just be that all seven-year-old boys are fascinated by poo in general.

  ‘Any questions?’ she said, trying to swallow the panic, when she saw that she was running three minutes behind schedule.

  ‘Just one,’ said Jimmy, pointing at his poo chart. ‘What’s corn-on-the-cob?’

  The doctor’s lounge was packed at 5 p.m. as Dan called the room to order. Julia tried not to stare at his tousled fringe or his un-ironed shirt. Rather than judging him for it, as she might have done only last week, his dishevelled appearance made Julia feel as though she wanted to take care of him. Noting to herself the difference between ‘taking care of him’ and ‘controlling him’, she was pleasantly surprised that this actually felt nicer.

  With half an ear, she heard Dan outline the latest developments. In a nutshell, they seemed to be no further forward than they were two days ago. She saw George Kingsley looking uncomfortable and apologetic and she noted the predictable absence of Henry Bruce – lousy coward! And to think, he’d been trying to rope her in to his scheme! She couldn’t pretend that the thought of an increased, steady salary wasn’t attractive. She just didn’t want to sell her soul to the Devil to achieve it.

  She grimaced as she heard Dan’s voice in her head, calling her a soulless automaton, in their last, most explosive argument before they’d broken up.

  He might have had a point.

  Then.

  She wondered if he would even recognise her now, from the thoughts that were running through her head. Looking around the lounge, faced with the prospect of losing it altogether, she found that the people here weren’t just her colleagues, to be bullied and bossed into submission.

  The shocker of it all? She found that she actually liked working here. She actually liked one or two of her colleagues. Okay, so it was a long way from forming a friendship, but this nascent fondness was a dramatic about-face, from her previous position of contempt and borderline tolerance.

  She watched as Holly stood up, wide-eyed and clumsy as ever, dropping all her papers in her nervousness. Again, there was a notable absence of exasperation. Instead, Julia simply leaned forward, scooped up Holly’s papers and handed them back to her. ‘You’ll be great,’ Julia whispered. ‘Knock ’em dead.’

  ‘Thank you,’ mouthed Holly with a smile.

  Julia caught Dan’s amazed expression and blushed. How much of a bitch had she bee
n, that picking up some fallen papers and offering support was so extraordinary?

  Holly cleared her throat and began to speak. She had a dry humour and an accessible tone that made her easy to listen to. The longer she spoke, the more confident she became, until the entire room was listening to her every word. Julia blinked hard. Holly had been here all of five minutes and respect for her was written on every face in the room. Well, except Taffy Jones, who just looked like an adoring spaniel, she noticed.

  ‘So,’ continued Holly, ‘rather than fighting the bureaucracy and being fobbed off at every turn, I wondered how you’d all feel about a little PR exercise. Let’s make Larkford seem real to the public. Let’s introduce our doctors, our nurses, our residents – if the public can identify with us, they’ll be more motivated to help us.’

  She carried on outlining her proposals and Julia noticed a lot of nodding heads. Holly’s plan seemed to have struck a chord.

  ‘How can they let The Practice go, once everybody knows how wonderful you all are?’

  ‘We are,’ interrupted Dan. ‘You meant we, didn’t you, Holly?’

  Holly flushed beetroot. ‘Anywaaay,’ she continued. ‘All of this will require time and effort and, I’m sorry to say it, a little working capital. So, I had an idea on that front too . . .’

  Holly paused, clearly gauging her audience and focusing her attention on likely supporters. Julia was gratified to find that Holly was throwing her a smile too, clearly assuming she would be one of them.

  ‘I thought we could have a concert. A town concert, to raise money. Get all of you on the stage – and any of the patients too – and have a good old-fashioned variety show, keep the costs low and charge admittance.’ Holly glanced over at George. ‘Perhaps we could even get Teddy to do a special thing in The Kingsley Arms afterwards for those who want to donate a little more?’

  ‘I could do a comedy set!’ called out Maggie.

  ‘I could dance, maybe,’ said Jade quietly.

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Holly. ‘The more the merrier. I did just wonder though . . .’

  She unrolled the large piece of paper she’d been mauling in her hands throughout the entire speech.

  Take a chance with us.

  Don’t take a chance with your health.

  Holly shrugged. ‘I thought it might be a better draw, if we all did something new – something we’ve never had to do before. So, for example, Taffy . . .’

  ‘He can sing like a reprobate angel,’ interrupted Maggie with a grin.

  ‘Well, quite,’ said Holly, noticeably flustered. ‘So maybe he should, I don’t know, learn to tango, or play the guitar, or flip pancakes or something? Maybe the rugby team could sing instead?’

  ‘Ooh, ohh,’ chirped in Maggie again, her imagination clearly caught by the whole idea. ‘The rugby team could do the Full Monty, like in the movie?’

  Everyone laughed and Maggie blushed. Dan stepped up to join Holly. ‘I think we’ll probably aim for more of a family show, Mags. But do you see, guys? Look at how enthusiastic Maggie is. How great would it be, if we can get some momentum and enthusiasm going in town too? We can call in favours with most of the local publications, radio shows, do interviews. Who knows, maybe we can get Julia to do a bit on Loose Women?’

  Taffy cat-called from the side lines. ‘No pun intended.’

  Julia, to everyone’s amazement, just laughed, surprising even herself. ‘I’d like to know how Dr Carter even knows about Loose Women, wouldn’t you?’ Glowing slightly under Holly’s laughing gaze, she shrugged as Holly sat down beside her. ‘What was it you said the other day? If you can’t beat them join them?’

  Holly leaned in against her shoulder happily. ‘Well, that went better than I was expecting.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper, ‘I was half expecting everyone to boo me out of the room as a Johnny Come Lately.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Julia simply. ‘They all adore you.’

  Holly raised an eyebrow, enjoying the new camaraderie between them. ‘And how much does that piss you off?’

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe,’ said Julia. ‘Sickening it is. Absolutely bloody sickening.’ She spoke with just enough humour to let Holly know she was okay with it.

  Holly grinned. ‘It’s all in the ponytail, you know!’ She boggled her head around for effect.

  ‘That and the big doe eyes under that floppy fringe . . .’

  Holly sighed, suddenly wiped after all the pre-meeting nerves. ‘The fringe just covers up my face. It’s way better than make-up.’

  Julia wondered whether her annoying perky new friend might have a point. Sitting next to Holly, who was fresh-faced and flushed, Julia felt like her own make-up had become a mask – war paint to hide her true self. Maybe a full face of make-up could be added to her should list – to be dropped – after all, she was a doctor, not an air stewardess.

  Dan appeared to be taking a vote. Julia raised her hand in the air with pride, all those for . . .

  ‘So,’ said Dan. ‘You’d all better get your thinking caps on. I gather that our wonderful Grace has already volunteered to oversee the whole fandango – so, personal profiles to her, plus ideas of anything you’re prepared to do to embarrass yourself for a worthy cause.

  ‘And if you’re wondering what level to aim for, I can already tell you that myself and the lads from the Rugby Club will be putting on our very own pièce de résistance! A little something for everyone, I hope. If we big, burly rugby players putting on a show can’t make the town smile, then frankly we’ve got bigger problems.’

  Chapter 33

  Holly, Julia and Taffy dutifully arrived at Elsie’s house the next day. There had been no ifs or buts about the invitation for supper – they had been summoned. Word was out in the town about plans for a fund-raising concert and Elsie had been repeatedly ringing The Practice since first thing. In the end, Dan had simply suggested that they accept the inevitable, honour Elsie’s position as unofficial Matriarch of Larkford and send a deputation. Originally, he had asked Taffy and Holly to go along, but Holly had found herself making excuses.

  It was easy to say that she needed to be home to put the twins to bed, but Dan was already one step ahead. ‘Pop home first, read them some Meg and Mog and hop along to Elsie’s.’

  How could she tell him the truth? The idea of an evening with Taffy, even with Elsie as chaperone, was simply a situation that Holly would prefer to avoid. The way her stomach flipped when she saw him at work, was early proof that moonlight and wine would not be sensible additions to the equation.

  Julia, for all her aloofness at work, had stepped into the breach by insisting she be allowed to come too. Eyebrows had been raised at this, but nobody was willing to question her motivation. Julia-making-an-effort was so much nicer to work with than Julia-making-a-point.

  Holly smoothed down her skirt and perched on the edge of the sofa in Elsie’s drawing room. It was one of those sumptuously decadent sofas that swallowed you up in its down-filled cushions if you even dared to sit back. The soft moss green of the coverings and the light pink tones in Elsie’s cushions simply made the sofa look even more like an enormous Venus flytrap.

  Taffy and Elsie were in the kitchen and gales of laughter were echoing through the house. They’d only gone through for Taffy to fix a dripping tap. Now, God only knew what they were getting up to in there, but from the snippets that Holly could hear, Martinis were certainly involved.

  Holly fumbled through her cavernous handbag, straightening out the crumpled plans she’d made so far for the concert. She’d meant to stop off in her favourite stationers and treat herself to a new notebook for this very purpose, but there simply weren’t enough hours in the day. She’d already had an awkward, stilted argument with Milo about coming out this evening and a guilt-inducing phone call from Will, where he asked yet again for her patience and support.

  Holly looked and felt exhausted. The shadows under her eyes from a late night plotting and planning were deepening as the day progressed and eve
n slapping on another layer of Julia’s Touche Éclat had made no difference. Hearing Taffy teasing Elsie in the kitchen about her sodden silk flowers barely raised a smile.

  She looked up, aware that Julia was staring at her, and she self-consciously fiddled with her hair. ‘What? Do I have something on my face?’

  Julia shrugged. ‘Just the weight of the world on your shoulders . . .’ Sitting on the floor, Julia cuddled her knees to her chest and took a deep breath. ‘Holly? Listen, I hope you don’t mind me saying – we don’t know each other that well – but when you talk about your husband, it sometimes sounds as though, well, as though you don’t like him very much. Tell me to sod off, if I’m being too nosey, but why do you stay with him?’

  ‘Crikey, you don’t mess about with the small talk, do you?’ Holly spluttered. Jesus, if even Julia Channing, known for her emotional reticence, was asking the question – did that mean the whole Practice was asking it too?

  Holly shrugged, unsure how to answer. It would be all too easy to fob Julia off with some anodyne comment, but then, if they were really becoming friends? Might honesty be the best policy? ‘My Dad died when I was young,’ Holly said eventually. ‘I hated growing up without a dad. So, even if we are having a rough patch – and trust me, we really are – then it’s better to be together. For the boys.’

  ‘Just the boys?’ Julia asked, clearly intrigued.

  ‘Well, obviously, once we get back on track, then it’ll be better for me too . . .’ Holly was very aware that her words weren’t even that convincing to herself, so she blustered on, ‘I just really think that boys need their fathers around, you know?’

  Julia nodded. ‘I can see that. Well, it just goes to show – you can get completely the wrong impression of someone. I had him pegged as all self-involved and intellectual. Is he just amazing with the boys, then?’

  Holly couldn’t help but let out a small nervous laugh. ‘Oh Julia, you do have the ability to get straight to the heart of the issue. No. You were right first time . . . He’s not really what you’d call a hands-on parent. But I have to believe, as the boys get older . . .’