Another silence follows, broken only by the crackle and wheeze of the logs in the fire. I look over at him, letting my eyes reach his, and I take a deep breath.
‘Lawrence, I think I’ve reached that point,’ I say, my voice all wobbly and my heart clamouring so hard it feels as if it might burst right out of my chest to race across the room and set a new world 100 metre sprint record. And Luke, Sasha, Mum, the wedding that wasn’t – it’s all swirling around inside my head, but I’m the common denominator, I know that, so I’m the one who has to make the effort if I want to stop living in the past and move forward. I remember Nana telling me once that if you don’t plan your own life then someone else will plan it for you, and that’s what I’ve allowed to happen, in a way, by not taking control, by shying away and letting things happen instead of facing them head on. I did it with Luke. I knew things weren’t right before the wedding; in fact, long before the wedding things had changed between us, I should never have agreed to marry him, but I did. I compromised and went along with it, got swept up in the excitement of the proposal, the ring, the feeling of fitting in, being normal, of having achieved a significant life event like all of my friends, of being partnered up and happy. Or so it seemed. Or was it fear? Fear of reaching forty and being on my own, while everyone else was settled down with babies? It’s ridiculous, the pressure, the expectations, and I got sucked into it all.
Well, no more. I’m going to take control of my life, I don’t want Mum feeling sorry for me with her ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ lines, and then trying to fix me up with men like Ian. I want to feel happy, do what I want and be amazing just the way I am.
‘Good, because you know what.’ Lawrence looks at me. ‘It was the best thing ever, us moving to Manhattan. My father staged his first play just off Broadway and it’s where I first got to touch and feel my dream. Stand on a stage and perform,’ he says, proudly. ‘Now, Sybs, can you feel your passion? What is your dream?’
He winks at me as I push the blanket off my knees to join him over by the window. I know what my dreams are and they’re full of knitting and needlecraft and quilting and being my own boss and moving on from the past. I’ve known for years the things I want to do and be, but somehow it all seems to have got muddled up and lost on that day in the church when Luke Skywalker went off on a very different kind of walk. And my sister betrayed me, broke my heart and stole something I had, that I thought was mine, yet again, and just like she always had, but toys, clothes, shoes, make-up are nothing in comparison to a fiancé, a husband-to-be, and she knew how much I believed I loved Luke. But I can’t change any of that now. Lawrence is right – what’s happened has happened, and it made me feel sad for a while and, truth be told, I’ll probably always have a little pocket of sadness in my heart whenever I think of Luke and what might have been before he lost interest and we drifted apart. And I have no idea if things will ever be OK between Sasha and I again. Not that we’ve ever been particularly close, but there was always a link, the bond that comes from being sisters. I give Lawrence a hug and swallow hard before telling him my dream, saying the words out loud.
After flicking the last of his cigarillo into the fire, Lawrence squeezes my shoulders.
‘Wonderful. So your new life begins right now!’ he says, stretching a theatrical hand out high and wide, like he’s back on Broadway and the curtain has just gone up. Fixing his eyes on mine, he raises an eyebrow and I think I might cry again. Just telling him, letting the words out and sharing them with someone else, those things that have been buried deep in my battered and bruised heart for months and months … well, the relief is overwhelming. ‘But first, I’m phoning the doctor’s surgery to see if we can get you an emergency appointment with Dr Darcy. You need to sleep, and he’s the man to make that happen. You know, he does hypnotherapy, homeopathy and lots of other holistic therapies too, so I’m sure he’s bound to have something that will help grace you with some much needed sleep! You can’t start a new life when you’re running on empty.’ Lawrence shakes his head. ‘Why don’t you go up to your room and have a little lie down? I’ll slip a note under the door with your appointment time on, and that way I’ll not disturb you if you do actually manage to get some sleep.’ He smiles reassuringly.
*
Back in my room, I sit in the armchair by the window and pull out my knitting, figuring I might as well make a start on the mittens, as it could well be a very, very long night. I have to give at least a week’s notice to get anywhere near an appointment at my doctor’s surgery, so I’m not holding out on getting to see Dr Darcy anytime soon. Taking the crimson yarn, I cast on, quickly getting into the familiar rhythm of knit one purl one, knit one purl one, knit one purl one; soothing and calming, it sweeps all the awfulness of that encounter with Adam away. I keep knitting until a folded piece of white paper slides under the door. I put my knitting down and pad across the room to retrieve the message.
Sybs,
Your appointment is at 6.30 pm. Dr Darcy said no problem at all about fitting you in at the end of surgery and if you don’t mind hanging around for a bit, I can drop you off there on my way up to the village hall for tonight’s rehearsal.
Meet you in reception around 6.15ish.
Lawrence x
Hmm, clearly I was wrong to be so cynical; seems you can actually see a village doctor at a moment’s notice, how very modern, which is a complete contradiction given that Tindledale doesn’t even have proper mobile phone coverage …
‘He won’t be long. Doctor is just finishing up with his last patient,’ a mumsy-looking woman sitting behind the reception desk says, after I check in at the doctor’s surgery. I push the pump underneath the bottle of antibacterial hand cleanser, mounted on the wall beside the touch-screen computerised appointment system. ‘Ooh, you’re good! Most people don’t bother doing that, and then complain when they catch a cold after coming in here with some totally unrelated ailment.’ The receptionist shakes her head and hands me a form and a black biro. ‘I’ve already filled in your name at the top, but if you can pop your details on as well, please – home address, phone number, that kind of thing, the B&B address as well – we have to know where you’re staying, for the EU thingamajigs.’ She does a tinkly laugh before patting her perm and waving a hand in the air. ‘And your own GP’s details and any medical conditions the doctor will need to know about. Oh, and if you’re taking any medication. Here, you might find it easier to lean on this.’ She hands me an old edition of Country Life magazine – it has a picture of a shiny black labrador on the front and is dated June 2002. It throws me slightly, her being so helpful and kind, in complete contrast to the hostile hag who polices the surgery of my doctor in London. Last time I called for a repeat prescription of my sleeping tablets, the receptionist was so indignant anyone would think that I had asked for a kilo of cocaine to be couriered round to my flat, immediately, free of charge, and by one of her very small children.
‘Thank you,’ I smile, when she draws breath, and I start filling in the form. I’ve just finished, when a red light buzzes on the wall.
‘Ah, there you go. Dr Darcy will see you now. Down the corridor, turn left and look for the door that says Doctor B Darcy.’ She smiles nicely and I so want to say, ‘I never would have guessed that for myself’, but I don’t, of course. Instead, I hand her the form and say,
‘Thanks so much for your help.’
‘You’re very welcome.’ She pauses to scan the top of my form, ‘Sybil! Oh, that was my mother’s name; how lovely,’ she beams before picking up a mug with Best Granny Ever inscribed on the side.
I find the door and, after pausing for a second to whip my parka and scarf off to loop over my arm, I tap the door before pushing it open. Inside – and Dr Darcy isn’t here. There’s a big mahogany desk by the window, with a computer screen shoved to the far corner, as if in disgrace – it’s facing away from the chair, so he’s obviously not a fan of technology, presumably preferring an old-school, traditional country doctor
approach, because the rest of the desk space is a jumble of papers, pens, empty specimen pots, a stethoscope, one of those ear torch things, a blood pressure kit and an open book with the pages facing down and BNF printed on the front cover. The floor is covered with files – cream-coloured wallets which, I assume, contain the medical details of every single Tindledale villager, the deceased ones too, because there are so many stacked up, practically covering every inch of floor space.
I sit down in a chair near the desk, guessing it’s where patients are supposed to sit, but it’s hard to tell, as there are several chairs dotted around the room. I’m just about to move to another chair, one that’s a bit closer to the desk, with my bag, parka and scarf clutched in my arms – I’m doing a kind of daft duck waddle so as not to drop all my stuff – when another door flings open and a tall, athletically built man in jeans and a checked shirt backs sideways into the room with his arms full of files and bumps right into me. My nose is eye-level with his bottom as I wobble and sling out a hand to steady myself, but it’s no use, and I end up toppling sideways onto the floor, landing in a heap with the fur-trimmed hood of my parka stuffed in my face. Oh God. I quickly fling the coat off and attempt to scrabble back up into a standing position, but it’s hopeless as the Dolly boots keep slip-sliding all over the place on the cream wallets which have suddenly transformed into slippery little fuckers against the super shiny tiled floor.
‘Ah, for fecks sake! Oh, I’m sorry, I, um …’ The man quickly dumps the files on the nearest chair. ‘Jesus, here, let me help you up – I’m so sorry,’ a deep, lilting and very lovely Irish voice says, followed by a solid-looking hand that reaches down to help me. After grabbing it like a lifebuoy, I glance up.
And that’s when I see his face.
Dark curly hair, emerald-green eyes behind black-framed glasses, stubbly chin … It’s him. The man from the train. And he’s not that shouty Adam from the bookshop at all! And he’s certainly not the old, traditional, country doctor in a tweedy suit that I had in mind. No, he most definitely isn’t. He’s young. And he’s hot. Fit, in fact, in a big, teddy bear, kind of a way. And I don’t know whether to cringe or laugh like a looper.
‘I’m Dr Darcy. And I really am so very sorry.’ He helps me back to a standing position before pushing a hand through his messy hair.
‘And I’m Sybs! But I guess you already know that,’ I say, picking a stray strand of faux fur from my tongue as I will my cheeks to stop flaming red like a pair of plum tomatoes.
It turns out that Dr Darcy’s first name is Ben. Short for, and get this, Benedict, as in Cumberbatch! For real – I spied it on one of his medical certificates hanging in a frame on the wall behind his desk. And he graduated as a doctor from Trinity College in Dublin in 2002, so I reckon he must be in his late thirties at least given that it takes years and years at university to learn to be a doctor, then there’s the GP training. And he’s now sitting opposite me with a very concerned look on his beautiful face.
‘I must apologise again. The surgery is about to have an overhaul, which is why we’re sorting out these files.’ He gestures to the jumbled heap of paperwork strewn all over the floor. ‘We’re in the process of being computerised.’ And I’m sure I spot a glimmer of an eye roll behind the lenses of his glasses. No wonder the computer has been pushed away in disgust. He’s clearly not a fan of technology at all.
‘Oh, I see.’ I do a half-smile and nod politely.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ his forehead furrows. I nod again, gathering my parka, scarf and bag into me like some kind of comfort blanket because he may be very lovely looking, and quite unassuming, and seemingly completely unlike Jane Austen’s dastardly Darcy – no, that’s more Adam’s style – but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s the doctor and well, there must be some kind of protocol that rules against having the hots for your GP. Plus, not forgetting, the message he left on the newspaper. Because why would he deliberately want to make a fool of me? And to be honest, I’ve had just about enough of men doing that recently. I cross my arms around the bundle of stuff piled up on my lap.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I mumble, unable to make proper eye contact.
‘Are you sure?’ he says, sounding concerned. ‘You didn’t hit your head on the floor did you?’ The furrow deepens.
‘Oh, no, I’m sure I didn’t. My coat kind of saved me,’ I say, quickly extracting the fur-trimmed hood from my clutch and waggling it in the air as some kind of proof of its crash-prevention qualities. There’s an ominous silence.
‘Only you seem a bit distant.’ He picks up a pen and appears to study it, rolling it between his thumb and index finger. Is he nervous? I’m not sure.
‘Well, that’s probably because I haven’t slept properly in ages. It’s why I’m here, actually,’ I begin, instantly wondering why I don’t just ask him about the message, but he hasn’t mentioned it so maybe it’s best that I don’t, especially after what happened the last time I did over at the bookshop – or perhaps there’s a protocol about that kind of thing too, like, doctors shouldn’t leave flirty, misleading messages on newspapers for total strangers! I will myself to get a grip and calm down, but it’s not easy, especially after what Adam said earlier. Desperate! And despite Lawrence’s pep talk, which did help enormously, that ugly word is still swirling round and round inside my head. I momentarily squeeze my eyes tight shut as if to banish the dark thoughts, because I can hardly whip out my knitting in here and do a few rows now, can I?
‘I forgot to bring my sleeping pills with me,’ I say, ‘so if you can let me have a couple just to tide me over until I get home on Sunday …’ I stop talking as he’s leaning forward now, even closer to me with his elbows resting on his knees, scrutinising me almost. I lean back, and plaster what I hope is a laid-back and very ‘undesperate’ look on my face.
‘Oh, I see,’ he pauses and if I’m not mistaken, I think there’s a hint of disappointment in his voice, ‘and can you tell me why you’re having difficulty sleeping?’ He clears his throat and starts shuffling stuff around his desk. How strange; all the doctors I’ve ever met have seemed far more self-assured than he appears to be.
‘I’d rather not,’ I reply, not wanting to go into all that again, and certainly not with him, that would just be too awkward, but then I quickly add, ‘If you don’t mind.’ He is a doctor after all, even if he does seem a bit untypical. And I guess I have more in common with my mother than I ever realised – she’s very reverent when it comes to ‘professionals’, and almost fainted from sheer ecstasy when Mr Manningtree, the heart surgeon, moved into the ‘big house’ behind ours. I remember getting home from school one time just as he came flying across our shared gravel driveway with wild eyes, his waxy Barbour jacket flapping around in the wind, swinging a shotgun under his arm and performing a dramatic lock and load action. Sasha and I were rooted to the spot behind the water feature underneath the Victoriana lamppost while Mr Manningtree hunted for the fox that had ruined his lawn. And Mum had just swooned and proclaimed that we must excuse his eccentricities for the greater good as there are ‘people all over the world with beating hearts and it’s all thanks to Mr Manningtree’. Hmm, on second thoughts, maybe Dr Darcy isn’t so untypical after all. Maybe it’s a pre-requisite these days for doctors to be a bit alternative: less stuffy, and more casual – I mean, he’s wearing faded jeans, a washed-out Fat Face sweatshirt and trainers, nice ones, but still …
‘Oh, I see. Um, well, in that case it’s a bit tricky.’ Tricky? What does he mean, tricky? I’ve never heard a doctor talk like this before, not even on Casualty or ER, and they’re pure fiction.
‘Oh,’ I mumble, unsure of what else to say.
‘I can’t really—’ He stops abruptly when there’s a knock on the door.
‘Sorry, Doctor, I forgot to give you Sybil’s paperwork.’ The receptionist darts into the room and quickly hands Dr Darcy my form.
‘Thanks, Pam,’ he smiles (a very nice smile indeed). And she backs out rev
erently, closing the door discreetly behind her. Dr Darcy studies my details before glancing back up at me.
‘So, Sybil, how long have you been taking the sleeping tablets for?’ he asks, sounding more professional now.
‘About six months.’
‘I see. And how do they make you feel?’
‘Sleepy?’ I venture, attempting a joke, and he definitely gets it as his mouth curls at the corners, almost into a smile.
‘And do they help you to sleep right through the night?’
‘Um, not always,’ I say, wishing he’d just give me the pills. Two tablets, that’s all I need. And my own doctor has already prescribed them so I don’t see why he’s grilling me. Surely he can just call my GP to check, or brace himself to tackle the computer to access my NHS records and then give me a prescription. I spotted a chemist in the High Street, so I’ll bomb straight over there and everything will be fine for a good night’s sleep tonight, with a bit of luck.
‘I see. And what about during the day?’
‘Well, I don’t sleep during the day, if that’s what you mean.’ I grin, but he seems to be engrossed in my paperwork now.
‘Sure,’ he says patiently, not looking up. ‘But how do you feel in yourself during the day?’
‘Bored mostly.’ And he does a surreptitious laugh, attempting to hide it behind his hand, but I spot it nonetheless. ‘Not at the moment, obviously, I mean being here in Tindledale is brilliant, and everyone is so lovely and friendly. Well, nearly everyone …’ My voice trails off as I think of Hettie’s awful nephew, and bossy Mrs Pocket, and Dr Darcy could be best friends with Adam for all I know, but he doesn’t react.
The Great Christmas Knit Off Page 13
