by Janet Tanner
Her face flamed.
‘I did offer to help out myself, but he said he could manage.’
He ignored this and she realised what he was waiting for her to say that she would make herself scarce and leave the consulting room to him. She felt mutinous suddenly, as well as rejected by all and sundry before she had even begun, but she was painfully aware she didn’t actually have a leg to stand on. She wasn’t supposed to be starting work until next week, but it seemed ridiculous to be so pedantic about it. She’d arrived full of enthusiasm – her only fault as far as she could see – and they seemed not to want her there. Could it be that they had heard similar reactions to her appointment as the one she had witnessed from Mrs Uphill earlier on, and were beginning to regret choosing her to fill the vacancy? In that moment it seemed to Helen to be the only possible explanation.
‘I take it you’d like me to go,’ she said.
His face changed; he was clearly taken aback.
‘Look – I didn’t mean …’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Her tone was still brittle. ‘I can always come back later. Or leave it until next week.’
‘If I could just have the use of my surgery for half an hour.’
‘Of course.’ She felt hurt and oddly disappointed. In the big impersonal hospital she had so looked forward to having her own surgery. Now here was Paul Stephens still referring to it as his, and obviously resentful about the changes she had made. ‘So long as you don’t mind using it the way it is,’ she added wickedly.
‘Helen …’
Some sort of disturbance in the passage outside, followed by a knock at the half-open door interrupted him. He turned and opened the door wide. A gangling youth wearing a butcher’s apron stood there, red-faced, out of breath and agitated.
‘Clive?’ Paul said. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘There’s been an accident down the street. Can you come, Doctor?’
‘What sort of accident?’
‘A woman’s got knocked down. She’s in the road by our shop. Mr Evans told me to come for you.’
‘I’ll go,’ Helen said.
‘Helen …’
‘Let me, please. My bag’s in the car.’
‘But …’
‘I am a doctor too,’ she said with asperity. ‘And I’ve spent the last five years doing my share of A & E. What’s more, I’ll be out from under your feet.’
‘Well – if you insist …’
‘I do.’
She pushed past him. The people still waiting in the corridor moved their feet for her to go through, gazing in open curiosity, excited by this unexpected diversion, getting ready to speculate as to what had happened and who had been hurt the moment the door closed after her.
Helen collected her medical bag from the car, already wondering about the wisdom of her hasty decision. It was possible she might have upset Paul Stephens by taking it out of his hands, but she’d had just about enough today of being treated like a raw student straight out of medical school and if she didn’t start as she meant to go on, it might very well continue that way.
She went down the hill, Clive the butcher’s boy hurrying along beside her. A group of people had gathered on the pavement outside the shop where he worked, and to her surprise she saw one of the green baize-covered wagons that delivered parcels from the railway station pulled up in the road, the great horse that drew it standing patiently between the shafts. For all her casualty experience, Helen’s heart came into her mouth. If the woman had gone under the wheels of the wagon or been trampled by the horse, it could be very nasty indeed.
She crossed the street towards the small crowd.
‘Could you all move back please? I’m a GP.’ They moved respectfully, but not so far as to spoil their view of the drama. ‘Please! Let’s give her some air.’
She went down on her haunches beside the woman – thin, elderly, sprawled awkwardly with her skirt rucked up to reveal long-legged Directoire knickers. Gently Helen pulled her skirt down enough to preserve the woman’s dignity.
‘Hello. Can you tell me your name?’
‘It’s Maud Perkins,’ one of the onlookers volunteered. ‘She was just crossing the road and a boy on a bike went straight into her!’
For the first time Helen noticed a lad standing a little apart, looking worried and holding a bloodstained handkerchief over his knee. So it hadn’t been anything to do with the delivery wagon. And there was no sign of any obvious injury either.
‘Can you tell me where you think you’re hurt, Mrs Perkins?’ she said to the woman.
‘My shoulder … my arm … oh!’ She winced and cried out as Helen investigated.
‘Your back doesn’t hurt too much? Can you move your legs?’
Mrs Perkins did so. Helen investigated further.
‘I don’t think you’ve done any serious damage, Mrs Perkins. But your shoulder is dislocated. I’m going to try and put it back in for you. It’ll be very painful, but only for a moment. Hold tight now.’
‘Come on – stand aside!’ The voice was authoritarian, bullying almost. Still holding Mrs Perkins’wrist Helen looked up, startled, to see a heavily built man towering over her. ‘Stand aside!’ he ordered again. ‘I’ll deal with this.’
Helen frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Out of the way, Miss, please. Leave the lady to me.’
‘Who are you?’ Helen asked, annoyed by his overbearing attitude and the way he appeared to be on the point of physically manhandling her out of the way.
‘I’m a trained first aider, that’s who.’
‘Really?’ Helen said coldly. ‘Well, I’m a doctor and I’d be very grateful if you would let me get on with treating my patient.’ She turned back to Mrs Perkins, completely missing his flabbergasted reaction. ‘OK – let’s get this shoulder back in.’
As the shoulder blade snapped back into place, Mrs Perkins screamed.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ The man’s voice was at a fever pitch of outrage now. Helen ignored him.
‘I’d like to take you over to the Cottage Hospital for a few X-rays, just to make quite sure there isn’t any other damage,’ she said to the woman who, although still white and shaken, was obviously now more comfortable. ‘My car is up at the surgery. If someone could give you a seat while you’re waiting, I’ll fetch it.’
‘She can sit down in my shop.’ That was Percy Evans, the butcher.
‘Fine.’ Helen helped Mrs Perkins to her feet, and Percy armed her inside the shop.
‘You shouldn’t have done that!’ The first aider was following Helen along the pavement, belligerent once again. ‘She shouldn’t have been moved!’
Helen stopped and turned to face him.
‘You are Mr … ?’
‘Gilson. Superintendent Gilson, actually. Of the local St John’s Ambulance Brigade. And we advocate …’
‘I’m sure you do an excellent job, Mr Gilson, but I’d be grateful if you would take account of the fact that as a GP with five years’ experience, I am probably better qualified than you. Now, if you want something to do I suggest you have a go at that boy’s knee and elbow.’ She indicated the lad who had crashed into Mrs Perkins. ‘It looks as if he’s grazed them quite badly.’
Leaving him almost apoplectic with rage and humiliation she hurried back up the hill.
The queue in the waiting room had reduced to a handful and Paul Stephens was in the doorway of their shared surgery on his way to call the next patient.
‘Can I have a quick word?’
‘Yes, surely.’
She went in, closing the door behind her, and explained to Paul what had happened and what she proposed doing.
‘Is Mrs Perkins one of our patients?’ she asked when she finished.
‘She is, yes. One of the “heartsinks”, I have to say. You know – the ones who make your heart sink when they appear round the surgery door? But you’ve clocked up some brownie points today, no doubt – especially by taking her to hospital in your own car.
If there’s one thing Maud Perkins likes, it’s having a fuss made of her.’
‘She had that all right!’ Helen smiled grimly. ‘A man who said he’s the superintendent of the local St John’s practically had a tug o’war with me over her.’
‘Albert Gilson. Thinks he’s God Almighty. You have to handle him with great care, though. The St John’s can be very useful.’
‘I didn’t do that, I’m afraid. Tact isn’t my strong point in that sort of situation.’
‘Don’t say you upset him!’
‘’Fraid so.’ Although the memory of his belligerence could still make her blood boil she was beginning to regret the way she’d spoken to him. ‘Anyway, I’d better get back down to Mrs Perkins. Having her sitting in the shop looking like the knell of doom is probably putting off all the butcher’s other customers.’
‘Nonsense. I expect he’s doing a roaring trade with everybody going in to find out what they can about what’s happened, if I know anything about Hillsbridge!’
Helen smiled. ‘You’re probably right – human nature being what it is.’
Perhaps, she thought, Paul Stephens wasn’t so bad after all.
‘So – how did your first day go?’ Amy asked.
They were having dinner – an excellent meal of lamb chops and onion sauce prepared by Mrs Milsom, Ralph and Amy’s housekeeper. Mrs Milsom was quite old now, and should have retired long ago, but she maintained retirement would be the death of her and certainly Valley View House would not have been the same without her.
‘It was swings and roundabouts, really,’ Helen said. ‘I managed to upset one of the big cheeses of the local St John’s.’
‘Oh him!’ Amy interrupted. ‘You don’t want to take any notice of him!’
‘But I think I won over one of the ladies on my list – a Mrs Perkins from Butter Buildings. With any luck she won’t be one of those asking to transfer to Dr Hobbs.’
Amy frowned.
‘Why should anyone want to do that?’
‘Search me. They think I’m too young and inexperienced, I suppose. And a woman to boot.’
‘Surely that’s an advantage?’ Amy said. ‘There must be loads of women who would rather see a lady doctor when it comes to … well … female problems. I know I would.’
‘You, Amy?’ Ralph threw her a mischievous glance as he helped himself to more runner beans. ‘I thought you had a penchant for doctors of the young male variety.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Ralph!’ Amy said sharply. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oliver Scott?’ Ralph teased. ‘Now don’t try to tell me you didn’t have a thing for Oliver Scott.’
‘That was years and years ago,’ Amy said impatiently. ‘I’m older and wiser now. And if I had a personal problem I’d far rather take it to Helen than to some man.’
‘I expect she’ll be very popular with all the male patients too,’ Ralph said. ‘Particularly the older ones. They’ll take the view that a pretty face will do far more for the good of their health than a bottle of AOT.’
‘AOT?’ Amy repeated, mystified. ‘What’s that?’
‘Tell her, Helen,’ Ralph said.
‘What is it, Helen?’
‘I think Ralph is referring to the name we give in the trade to a bottle of coloured water. AOT. Any old thing.’
‘I’m shocked!’ Amy said. But she was laughing.
The telephone began to ring.
‘I’ll get it,’ Ralph said.
A few moments later he was back.
‘For you, Helen.’
‘Me? Who is it? Mum?’
‘No. It’s a man.’
Already halfway to the door, Helen froze, a torrent of conflicting emotions welling within her.
‘Did he say …?’
‘No. Just asked for you.’
‘Are you all right, Helen?’ Amy asked, looking anxious.
‘Yes – of course.’
But she wasn’t. Her heart was beating a tattoo, her stomach churning.
She went into the hall; picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Helen … it’s me.’
The voice that could still churn her inside out with love, desire, despair.
‘I had to talk to you, Helen.’
‘I thought we’d agreed,’ she said. Her voice was hard, hiding the tumult within. ‘I thought we’d agreed, Guy. A clean break.’
‘Helen …’
‘No, Guy. There’s no point going over it all again. I’ve stuck to my side of the bargain. You stick to yours.’
Without waiting for a reply, afraid that if she did she might yet weaken, Helen slammed the phone down and went back to join Amy and Ralph.
Chapter Six
‘What on earth have you got on your face, my girl?’ Carrie demanded.
‘It’s only a bit of lipstick,’ Jenny said.
‘It is not only a bit of lipstick. You’ve got blue muck on your eyelids as well. Don’t try to tell me you haven’t. I’m not blind, and I’m not stupid.’
‘But Mum – all the others wear it.’
‘That doesn’t mean you have to follow like a sheep. And I thought I’d said before, you’re not old enough to wear earrings, either. Where did you get them?’
‘They’re Rowena’s. She lent them to me.’
‘Well, you can just give them right back to her. Earrings! At your age! I never heard anything like it!’
‘But Mum …’
‘You’re not going out looking like that, Jennifer. Either you wash that muck off your face and take off those earrings, or you can stay home.’
Jenny wanted to weep with frustration. She’d spent ages applying the eyeshadow and lipstick. It hadn’t been as easy as she’d thought it would be and she’d had to wipe it off several times and try again before she was satisfied. She knew how Carrie was about make-up, calling it cheap and common, but she’d hoped she’d done it subtly enough so that Carrie wouldn’t notice – or wouldn’t mind if she did. But she’d reckoned without Carrie’s eagle eye and strong views on the subject.
‘Dad …’ Jenny appealed, without much hope, to Joe, who was sitting in the easy chair reading the paper. ‘You look very nice, m’dear.’ He hadn’t really been listening.
‘It makes her look far too old,’ Carrie said. ‘I’ve had my say, Jenny. I’ve agreed to let you go to this youth club – so long as you behave yourself – but I’m not having you go like that. It’s asking for trouble. Go and wash it off now, and we’ll say no more about it.’
Argument was useless, Jenny knew. Miserably she went up to the bathroom, looking at herself one more time in the mirror. The make-up had worked such wonders! But then, almost imperceptively, nature had been working wonders too. The face that looked back at her was somehow, miraculously, no longer plain. The small even features which once had seemed bland and insignificant had matured, childish chubbiness had become rounded prettiness and the fringe she had grown had altered the shape of her face, drawing attention to her eyes – always her best feature – and the heart shape her jaw had become. Jenny, who had spent most of her life so far hating the way she looked, was almost in awe of the change, half afraid to take pride in it because she felt it was somehow fragile, ephemeral, a product of her wishful thinking which would disappear overnight, leaving her once again the old plain Jenny.
It wasn’t only her face that had changed, either, but also her body. She was, it was true, still a little on the plump side, but as the curves had developed she had also grown taller without putting on weight so that the stodginess had become rounded womanliness. The changes had generated a dawning of confidence in her, still fragile, still easily shattered, but a major step forward nonetheless. The attitude of others towards her was different too, she was no longer the butt of their jokes, but looked upon with something close to admiration, and Jenny grew within its warmth, blossoming almost daily, gradually leaving her awkward old self behind like a butterfly emerging from a chrysa
lis.
Had she but known it, of course, it was this emergence which made her mother so hard on her. Carrie looked at Jenny, saw what was happening to her, and was afraid.
She looked up now as Jenny came back downstairs, peering closely at the newly scrubbed face for the slightest remaining trace of the forbidden make-up. It had gone, as had the earrings.
‘That’s better,’ she said, still a little huffy. ‘Now, you’re to be home by half past nine. You know that, don’t you? Don’t be late.’
‘I won’t.’
‘And stay away from the boys.’
‘Oh, Mum!’
‘You’re not old enough to be getting off with boys.’
‘I know. I won’t.’
‘You shouldn’t keep on to her,’ Joe protested mildly when the front door had closed behind Jenny.
‘You can’t be too careful. After what happened to our Heather I should have thought even you would realise that.’
‘She’s only a child.’
Carrie turned away, raising her eyes heavenward. Pointless to argue with Joe. He never saw danger, not even when it was staring him in the face. What would it take to make him alter that infuriatingly easy-going attitude? An earthquake, probably, and as the ground shook and parted beneath him he’d still be saying: ‘It’s nothing to worry about, m’dear.’
Carrie shook her head, feeling suddenly old and powerless, and went back to her ironing.
The youth club was in the centre of town in the building that had housed the Working Men’s Club before it had moved to its new premises in the Street. Downstairs, what had once been the public bar had been turned into a coffee bar, with chairs both easy and upright and small tables. The upper floor was the recreation area, usually set out with a table-tennis table. Tonight, though, this had been dismantled and stacked away, and the record player which provided entertainment in the coffee bar area brought up and balanced on a card table. It was the night of the weekly ‘Hop’and as Jenny pushed open the door, the husky voice of Ruby Murray rolled down the stairs to greet her.
The coffee bar area was crowded and Jenny’s fragile new-found confidence all but deserted her. They all looked so grown up! – girls in pencil-slim skirts and kitten heels, their hair tied in ponytails or waving to their shoulders, boys who looked more like men, except that their hair was longer than a man would ever wear it, smoking, chatting, some sprawled in chairs with their feet on the tables. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she dared go into this grown-up world. Then she spotted Rowena on the stairs, waving to her, and stepped into the smoky, noisy womb.
