by Penny Parkes
Just get on with it – & call me after
Tx
Alice sighed. It was one thing being cross with Tilly when she was way off base, but when there was a chance she was bang on the money? She quietly stood up and shut Coco outside the bedroom door, much to the little dog’s annoyance. ‘I’m doing this for your own good, Coco. There’s no way you need to hear this . . .’
She picked up her laptop and began to type, relieved to see that it was Oliver in Sydney online, rather than Norfolk Neil who, let’s face it, needed very little encouragement before he’d jump on his tractor and head straight for Larkford.
‘I missed you, A,’ Oliver typed. ‘Have you been out saving lives?’
‘Hardly,’ she replied.
‘Isn’t it way past your bedtime, anyway, young lady?’ he typed, giving her the perfect opening.
‘In bed already.’ She paused and bit her lip, wondering if she had the nerve. ‘Can’t sleep – too restless. Need to let off steam.’
He dived into the conversation with such alacrity that Alice couldn’t help but wonder whether this was what he’d been waiting for all along.
‘Only too happy to help you unwind . . .’ The cursor flashed for a moment – ‘I’m game if you are.’
‘Where are you?’ she asked, wondering how he found time in the middle of the working day for a conversation like this.
‘Just got back from surfing. Lounging at home. Talking to you. Imagining you in bed.’
She pushed away thoughts of his apparent unemployment. ‘What are you wearing?’ she typed awkwardly, only remembering this particular gambit from a dodgy made-for-TV movie she’d watched the night before.
There was a pause and then a photo popped up on her screen – washboard abs, board shorts and what looked like an enormous erection tenting the fabric. ‘More than I want to be!’ he typed. ‘What about you?’
Alice hesitated. It didn’t seem to matter that he was easy on the eye, or that his image was pixelated rather than in bed beside her. It mattered to her that the towel he was lounging on was exactly the shade of duck-egg blue she’d been looking for. It mattered to her that the only question she really wanted an answer to was where he had bought it and did they deliver internationally.
She logged off abruptly, just as Coco decided she’d had enough of the whole scenario anyway and pushed open the bedroom door.
‘Well, it’s official,’ said Alice as she buried her scorching face in the little dog’s fur in mortification, before an attack of the giggles overwhelmed her. ‘I seriously need to get out more.’
Chapter 14
Dan blinked hard the next morning, attempting to focus on the screen in front of him. Fatigue and worry were playing their twin roles in making his day so much more challenging than it needed to be. After all, he’d had a relatively easy slate so far, coughs, colds and acid reflux hardly testing his medical prowess.
He tapped redial on his phone, a little unnerved that Harry Grant had chosen this week in particular to go MIA. So inherently, boringly reliable, Harry would always record a fresh voicemail message on his mobile even when he claimed a rare half-day. Today though, the recorded message played out once again on the speaker – the number you are calling is unavailable. Dan finished the call in frustration – knowledge was power when it came to the NHS, and right now, Dan couldn’t help but feel they were being deliberately kept out of the loop.
He flicked through the online directory and tried Harry’s direct line at HQ. The voice that answered, however, did not belong to Harry Grant.
‘Derek Landers speaking.’
Dan was speechless for a moment. He cleared his throat. ‘Mr Landers. Good morning. It’s Dan Carter here, from The Practice at Larkford.’
Derek gave a smug chuckle. ‘Oh, I wondered how long it would be before I heard from you.’
‘I was hoping to speak to Harry Grant,’ Dan continued.
‘Yes, well, I’m afraid your lap dog is no longer in the employ of the NHS. It seems that our visions for the future of our Primary Care Trust were not aligned. He seemed to take our proposals rather personally, dropped the ball professionally so to speak. So, I’m afraid I had no choice but to let him go.’
‘Well, I’m incredibly sad to hear that,’ Dan managed, trying to keep the conversation on track despite a visceral pull of shock and disappointment. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to fill us in on your plans for maternity provision. Our patients are extremely concerned that their options are being limited, without, it would appear, any commensurate care being on offer elsewhere.’
‘The birthing unit at Rosemore was a drain on our finances and, frankly, a risk to our patients. Surely you should know, Dr Carter, that transferring a woman with complications in labour is far from ideal.’
‘I’m not suggesting we send our high-risk patients there, Mr Landers,’ said Dan, working hard to remain calm. ‘But to remove the option of a midwife-led birth, to insist on hospital births, is tantamount to infringing our patients’ right to choose. And you, Mr Landers, can surely appreciate the cycle of intervention that takes place in a hospital setting. If you can’t appreciate the personal choices of these women, surely you can agree that high intervention equates to high cost?’
Derek harrumphed down the line. ‘And you think these hippy-dippy birthing centres are cheap to run? One-to-one support just isn’t cost-effective. Besides,’ he sounded rattled now, ‘we’re hardly going to base our policy around a hormonal minority of trouble-makers who can’t see further than their own ovaries.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I think we can agree that their ability to think rationally is somewhat compromised at this time in their lives. I like to think we have their best interests at heart, rather than buying into some feckless fallacy.’
‘That’s an interesting stance you’ve taken,’ said Dan coldly, ‘but since I am neither hormonal, nor in possession of any ovaries, last I checked, perhaps you might take my opinion into account? This is an absolute outrage, Derek, and you know it is. Why else would you pull a stunt like an overnight closure? My colleagues and I feel pretty bloody strongly about this, and we’d like to know what your plan is. What do you intend to do? Close down the Air Ambulance facility too? Fire everyone who doesn’t agree with you?’
‘If only I could,’ Derek bit back. ‘And this issue is above your pay grade, I’m afraid. Budgets have to balance, you know. You’ll be advised in due course of the alternative arrangements available.’ With a click, he hung up on him and Dan stared at the phone in shock for a moment.
‘You slimy little git,’ he breathed in fury.
He blinked hard, trying to find some semblance of composure, before pushing back his chair, his anger and frustration no excuse to let his standards slip and start relying on the intercom. Derek Landers and his scheming would simply have to wait.
‘Edward Everett?’ he said, spotting his next patient the moment he walked into the waiting room, for Edward and his wife were well nigh inseparable. Indeed, it was rare to find a couple in their nineties who were still so obviously in love. Edward rose slowly to his feet, nodding his head to Dan in greeting, before holding out a gallant hand to Jane. As the two of them edged slowly towards him, Dan couldn’t help but smile. ‘Morning, you two. You look like trouble.’
Jane laughed sweetly. ‘Oh Dr Carter, you are a card.’
‘The mind is willing, son,’ said Edward with a twinkle, ‘the body not so much.’
By the time they were seated in Dan’s consulting room, he couldn’t help but note that nearly a third of their allocated appointment time had elapsed, but he didn’t have the heart to rush them out of the door – the effort involved in getting here meant they didn’t trouble him lightly.
‘I’ve been getting night sweats,’ blurted out Edward suddenly. ‘And I’ve lost a bit of weight rather quickly.’
‘Without trying?’ Dan clarified, noting the gaping collar of Edward’s starched shirt.
‘I’ve been trying to feed him up,�
�� Jane said. ‘But even my steak and kidney pie isn’t helping.’ She spoke as though her pie was the panacea for any ills. For all Dan knew, she might even be right.
Dan also knew well enough that it was always worth finding out what possible diagnosis was on the patient’s mind. Often, he could put their mind at rest, or at least make sure that they included the appropriate testing at the outset, and Edward was no different. ‘I’m convinced it’s cancer,’ he said. ‘I saw my dad go through much the same thing.’
‘And the tiredness, Dr Carter, some days it’s like he’s walking through treacle,’ Jane interrupted, leaning forward in her seat for emphasis, her arthritic knuckles swollen as she grasped her cane.
Edward nodded in agreement, the sunlight catching the pigmentation on his scalp where his hair had long since given up residence. They both looked at Dan expectantly as though he might have all the answers, their touching respect for him as their family doctor in stark contrast to Lavinia Hearst’s verbal abuse last night when he’d called by the hospital after work to see how Jessica was getting on. These two were old school, and as such, they deserved a few more moments of his time than was generally decreed.
‘Okay,’ said Dan. ‘Anything else you’ve noticed? Any funny moles, or blood in your stools, or pain anywhere?’
Edward let out a short bark of laughter. ‘Oh Dr Carter, I’m ninety-two. I’ve been in pain for pretty much the last decade somewhere or other! But no, nothing new to report.’
‘Well, I’d like to examine you first and then I’d like to check your thyroid, your blood sugar and also your blood count – just a simple blood test to give me a clearer idea of what’s going on in there.’ He stood up and guided Edward Everett to the examination couch, before giving him a thorough once-over, all the while thinking there was every chance Edward was right on the money. They’d wait overnight for the bloods to come back, but Dan had a horrible feeling he’d be phoning Oncology in the morning.
Watching the gentle banter and loving support that Edward and Jane offered each other, shaking his hand in thanks as they left, Dan found himself quite choked up. It wasn’t that he knew them particularly well; it wasn’t that Edward’s health was in immediate jeopardy – it was just the fact that they clearly loved each other so very much. Politely declining their offer to introduce him to their ‘beautiful granddaughter’, he was touched that they were still thinking about other people’s happiness even in the midst of their own personal crisis.
Grace walked towards him down the corridor and he cleared his throat, unwilling to let on how emotional he was feeling, but Grace missed nothing. ‘They do have that effect, those two, don’t they?’
Dan nodded. ‘I wonder what it’s like to grow old with your childhood sweetheart?’ He had a vaguely romantic notion of them meeting at Larkford primary school and never spending a night apart.
Grace frowned. ‘What are you going on about? Childhood sweethearts? They met at the grief-counselling group in Bath, ooh, maybe fifteen years ago now, when they’d both lost their spouses. It’s rather lovely actually, that they both get another chance at happiness.’ She gave Dan a sideways look, realising she’d shattered his illusion. ‘Never too late. Don’t you think?’
He just nodded. ‘I do, actually.’ He watched as she walked away from him, distracted by the way her hair brushed her shoulders with every step. He stayed in the doorway until she was out of sight, wishing things were different.
It took quite a lot to impress Dan. It wasn’t that he was hard to please per se, but in his line of work he often found that people had a nasty habit of sinking to the lowest common denominator. Whether comparing cigarettes or calories or alcoholic units, his patients tended to justify their excesses by what was the norm in their social group.
But every now and then, Dan would see a patient who defied all societal norms and just focused on the hand they’d been dealt. He scrolled through Matthew Giles’s notes and squinted, trying to trick his eyes into seeing between the lines. This young lad had dropped out of university to return home earlier in the year and had been a regular in the surgery ever since.
‘So, Matthew, how are you doing?’ He left the question deliberately vague, hoping that the patient himself might open up and fill in the blanks.
Matthew just shrugged. He was a living master class in coping strategies. ‘Fine. I mean, not fine, but we’re coping. Mum’s doing a bit better this month, she’s taken some time off work, which makes it easier—’
Underplaying the stresses of caring for his mother, Molly, was his go-to setting. Dan could only begin to imagine how an eighteen-year-old lad might struggle with caring for a patient with early-onset Parkinson’s, let alone abandoning his education to do so. The fact that Matthew himself was now suffering from chronic migraines suggested that he wasn’t coping quite as well as he thought he was. Sure, the fridge was full and the laundry up to date, even the endless forms from the DWP were filled in with Matthew’s cramped and somewhat childish handwriting, but what was the true cost?
‘What about you, though?’ Dan asked. ‘Are you sleeping? I think last time we spoke you mentioned that was becoming a problem?’
Matthew nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s not been great. Mum’s having a lot of pain at night – she wakes up about 2 a.m. and can’t get comfortable again. But I can’t complain, can I? There’s lots of parents of newborns getting by on less.’ He paused then and Dan wondered if they were both thinking the same thing – newborns grew up; for Molly Giles this was only the beginning of the decline.
‘You know,’ said Dan, ‘I really think we need to get your mum some help with that, because you can’t do everything you do every day on so little sleep, Matthew. And these migraines – well, it won’t be helping them either. How did you get on with the melts I prescribed?’
Matthew looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, I did try them—’ His glance flickered towards Dan, hoping that he might intervene, but Dan had learned just to wait. It was a bit like being a journalist; sometimes if you kept quiet then your patient would blurt out the truth just to fill the empty silence. Matthew was no exception. ‘They were great actually. But I can’t take them. They make me really sleep, I mean seriously, out cold, there’s no waking me. And I can’t do that.’
He didn’t need to explain why. He was, and had been for the last six months, the sole carer in the house.
‘Look,’ said Dan gently, ‘I really don’t want to overprescribe for these migraines, Matthew, when I’m quietly convinced that there are situational factors that trigger them. Wouldn’t it be better if we took a look at those, together?’ He watched the flicker of fear on Matthew’s face and moved to reassure him quickly. ‘Nothing dramatic. Molly’s fine at home for now, but you need some respite too, you know. Being a carer isn’t easy, especially for someone so young. Dr Graham and I have been exploring a few options – some home help, or maybe even some day-care or respite facilities for further down the line? I bet your mum would like that too. She must be worrying about you and all the responsibilities you’ve taken on?’
‘It’s not that I can’t cope, Dr Carter,’ interrupted Matthew earnestly. ‘We’re doing the best we can, you know.’
‘I know,’ said Dan. ‘But we all need a little help sometimes. And there’s no shame in asking for it.’
By the time Dan had made a few more calls and set the wheels in motion, The Practice was oddly quiet. The patients were long gone, the only sound coming from the doctors’ lounge.
Taffy grinned as he saw Dan walk in. ‘Thought we’d lost you there, for a bit.’ He gestured at the kitchen table, where a large Fortnum’s hamper was in the process of being devastated by Taffy, Grace and several of the nursing staff. ‘I hope you don’t mind, we started without you.’
Dan picked up the folded card, a printed crest on heavy vellum stock, his eyes widening as he read the inscription inside.
Taffy grinned, his mouth full of luxury cheese puffs. ‘Somebody’s got a guilty conscience.’
It was true, for this was no thank-you gift from the Hearst family, but rather an apology for Lavinia’s outburst at the hospital. Ironically, this lavish display of wealth meant so much less than a simple ‘I’m sorry’.
Dan shrugged off the uncomfortable emotion that chased that thought. He was too tired to go there today. ‘Did you save me anything?’ he teased, laughing as Jade and Jason squabbled over the last crab cake.
‘Figs?’ offered Taffy. ‘Quails’ eggs? Marzipan delights?’ He rootled around in the depths of the basket, the contents of which would surely have fed the entire staff with some left over. He’d been strangely buoyant and chirpy all day and was clearly up for letting off some steam. ‘And nobody much fancied the jam or the tea. The gin is bloody gorgeous though.’ Taffy thrust a large chipped tumbler towards Dan, its pharmaceutical logo ironically declaring a drug to treat acid reflux from over-consumption.
Dan took a long sip and then made fast work of building himself the ultimate club sandwich, snaffling a box of Turkish Delight for later, before the locusts could claim it.
‘Sorry,’ said Grace guiltily. ‘Taffy did say it was for sharing though. But I’m sure the apology was mainly meant for you.’
Dan nodded. ‘I just wish people engaged their brains a bit before opening their mouths, don’t you? I’d so much rather receive a thank-you and skip the bitter aftertaste.’
It was sometimes a thankless task being a GP: he’d refer Edward Everett on to a consultant who would save the day; or Matthew Giles to a support group who would guide him and hopefully alleviate some of the burden. Even Jessica Hearst would be out of his hands now, as her family’s private health care scheme had picked up the baton once she’d cleared Intensive Care. It was a rare thing indeed for Dan to see the whole story through to the ending, happy or otherwise.
