‘Lorna, you’ve got to leave Ralph out of this. Now you’ve made the break, it would be madness to go back.’
‘But he’s in such a state.’
‘Too bad.’
Lorna couldn’t be so heartless. Or was she just a hypocrite, blaming Ralph for her own indecision? ‘I … think I’m a bit shell-shocked after Agnes’s death. I mean, I ought to be looking for somewhere to live, but instead of doing anything about it I’m just sleeping on Clare’s floor.’
‘I’ve told you – if you come here you can live in, share this place with me.’
Lorna glanced around the kitchen, a cheerful, airy room with primrose-yellow walls, a rustic dresser and a window overlooking the orchard and the tennis-courts. The coach-house and its neighbouring buildings formed a community, a haven. So different from the dour, isolated house in Queen’s Hill Drive. And this would be her home, not Ralph’s; her job.
‘And no cleaning or gardening. It’s all done for you. You don’t have to cook if you don’t feel like it. The staff dining-room provides three good meals a day. And just a stroll across the lawn to get to work.’
Lorna stirred her coffee. She had always found it a struggle tending a too-big house and garden single-handed, and it was certainly dispiriting eating on her own. Couldn’t she say yes?
She sat holding her cup, seeing in her mind the small, battered suitcase she had taken from the hospice: all that remained of Agnes. A white flannel nightgown, a pair of threadbare slippers, a plastic comb, a tube of denture-cleaner and a photo in a frame – not Margaret, not Agnes’s mother, but a child of seven wearing a pink ballet-dress, every frill and flounce hand-sewn by her aunt. That was why she was afraid to take the job: without Agnes and without Ralph, the two props in her life, she might crumble to nothing. And she couldn’t risk letting Kathy down.
There was a loud ring on the doorbell.
Kathy got up. ‘Now who can that be?’
‘Chris, maybe, come to read the Riot Act. Shouldn’t we be clearing up or something?’
‘Absolutely not. She’s booked a firm of cleaners and said I’m not to lift a finger.’ Kathy went to open the door.
Lorna could hear male voices – one she recognized. She tugged her nightie down over her knees and tried to hide her misshapen right foot with the hardly less unsightly left. Too late. In walked Paul and a man she didn’t know.
‘Hi, Lorna! Great to see you again. This is Nick, my flatmate. We’re just going out for a drink and wondered if you and Kathy fancied coming.’
‘I said yes,’ Kathy’s head appeared behind him. ‘Is that OK with you, Lorna?’
‘Well, it would be if I had something to wear. Apart from a red dress that’s still soaking wet!’
‘Come as you are,’ Paul quipped.
Kathy laughed. ‘Did I warn you about this guy, Lorna?’
Lorna began to feel better. The sun was shining, Paul had sought her out, and she did find him rather attractive. Once she’d drowned her fears in the pool last night she had become almost a different person – carefree and relaxed. Perhaps it would continue. And if she could just stop being so negative she might even make a decision.
Chapter Twenty Six
Lorna looked up expectantly as yet another white-coated figure emerged from one of the doors. Mr Weekes at last?
No. Or at least not yet ready for her. Whoever it was summoned another patient – a young lad with a fledgling moustache who had been here a scant ten minutes. She’d been waiting half an hour.
Despondently she continued flicking through her magazine. Her eye was caught by a headline: ‘First Date: How Far Should You Go?’ The article advised restraint – a sure-fire way to make your man feverish with desire. But did she want Paul feverish with desire? It was just her luck that the clinic had offered her a cancellation on the very day they were meeting. She was nervous enough about the evening, without the added complication of a foot-scan. And she was bound to be late if the return journey from Plumstead proved as bad as the one there. (Signal failure, litter on the line and a driver pursuing his own personal go-slow.)
‘Lorna?’ The booming voice made her jump. ‘I’m Bertram Weekes. How do you do?’
She winced as he shook her hand. Forget foot problems her fingers felt as if they’d been crushed in a mangle. And where was his white coat? The man was wearing a hound’s-tooth-check suit and a yellow-spotted bow-tie.
‘Sorry to have kept you, Lorna.’
‘That’s OK.’ He was not at all as she’d imagined. The name Weekes suggested a frail, wispy type, whereas his bull neck and broad shoulders were more suited to a rugby prop forward than to a podiatrist. A prop forward who toured a lot: he was tanned a deep mahogany. Sunlamps? A time-share in the tropics?
‘Do come this way, Lorna.’
She followed him into a poky room whose dimensions seemed further reduced by his bulk. It was furnished with a desk, two chairs, a couch and, unnervingly, a model of a skeletal foot standing on a table in the corner.
‘Sit down, sit down. I hope you don’t mind me calling you Lorna.’
A little late to ask.
‘And please do call me Bertram. We don’t want to stand on ceremony. If you can stand at all – ha ha! Just my little joke.’
She smiled politely.
‘Sorry to have kept you. I’ve just come back from a fortnight in Antigua and I’m trying to catch up with the backlog of patients. Wonderful trip though – scuba-diving, snorkelling, kayaking, sunfish sailing …’ He continued enumerating the myriad water sports on offer, before launching into the marvels of Caribbean bird life.
No wonder he ran late if he gave all his patients a run-down of his holiday. There must be money in feet: in the few months since her operation Mr Hughes had been on three expensive trips abroad.
Mr Weekes rummaged among the papers on his desk. ‘I’ve got a letter somewhere … From Mr Brownlow, wasn’t it?’
‘No, Mr Hughes.’
‘Ah yes, of course. I’m all over the place today! Blame it on the jetlag. It always flattens me. Don’t you find the same?’
‘Mm.’ It was years since she’d been on a plane, or indeed anywhere much beyond Lincolnshire. And as for flattening him, that would take a ten-ton truck.
‘Damn! I can’t seem to find the thing.’ He was still riffling through piles of paper. ‘I could have sworn I had it here. Let me buzz my secretary … Polly? A letter from Mr Brownlow regarding Mrs Lorna Pearson.’
‘Hughes,’ said Lorna.
‘Sorry. Mrs Lorna Hughes.’
‘No, Mr Hughes. My surgeon.’
‘Lordy, lordy!’ Another throaty laugh. ‘We’d better start again. Polly, I need a letter from Mr Hughes regarding Mrs Lorna Brownlow.’
Shades of Oakfield House, she thought, as she corrected him yet again.
‘While we’re waiting I’ll take a look at your X-rays. You brought them with you, I hope.’
‘Yes, here they are.’ A good job one of them was efficient. ‘These were done before the op, these just after, and these latest ones six weeks ago.’
‘Dear, dear,’ he muttered, as he examined them in detail. ‘I’m afraid things don’t look too good.’
The very phrase ‘I’m afraid’ now made her fear the worst.
‘I’m afraid he hasn’t achieved any reasonable degree of correction. The great-toe joint is still very much enlarged. Have you been wearing unsuitable shoes since the op?’
‘No, not at all.’ Normally she clumped around in the walking-boots advised by Mr Hughes, but today – in Paul’s honour – she had put on a pair of just-about-passable (although highly unglamorous) lace-ups. ‘And actually Mr Hughes did admit that he hadn’t got the toe as straight as he’d have liked.’
There was a tap on the door and in sauntered a girl wearing a tight mock-leopardskin top that barely managed to contain her ample bust. ‘There we are, Bertie,’ she said with a suggestive smile, handing him the letter as though it were a billet-doux.
‘Thanks, Pol.’ He scanned it briefly, mumbling the old phrase: ‘… extensive synovitis … pin-tract infection … metatarsalgia … plantar digital neuroma … Dear, dear, dear,’ he repeated. ‘Quite a chapter of accidents. But tell me, Lorna’ – he tossed the letter on to the pile – ‘where are you having pain at the moment?’
Where wasn’t she having pain? Wearily she recounted her symptoms. ‘Also, just this week a new sort of … bump appeared on the other side of my foot – not where I had the op, but near my little toe. It hurts a lot when I walk.’
‘We’ll take a look at that in a second. First of all I’d like to see you walk. Could you take a few steps, please, up and down the room.’
She did so, feeling clumsy and somewhat foolish under his hawklike gaze.
‘Yes, as I thought, your whole gait is wrong. I’m not surprised. The operation has changed the balance of your foot and that has caused new problems. Take your shoes and socks off and get up on the couch.’
Well, at least he didn’t expect her to put her feet on his plump hound’s-tooth thighs.
His hands felt hot and moist as he manoeuvred her toes this way and that. She had become inured to the pain of such examinations. What concerned her more was that the bottoms of her best cream trouser-suit were splashed with mud – a result of the torrential downpour that had started as she stepped out of the train. She wanted to look her best for Paul. At this rate he would think her clothes were permanently wet.
‘Well,’ Mr Weekes said cheerfully, ‘in my opinion your feet are worse now, Lorna, than they were before the surgery.’
The Monster swooped in with a triumphant cackle. ‘At last! Somebody’s admitted it.’
‘For one thing, you’ve developed a second bunion, or bunionette. This bump you’ve been complaining about’ – he fingered the outside of her little toe, almost the only part of her foot not scarred – ‘is what we call a tailor’s bunion. Tailors used to get them from sitting cross-legged, which built up pressure in this area. And the second toe is extremely stiff. It should have been made much shorter. As it is, you’ve lost the flexibility in the joint. In fact I’d go further and say that you’ve had completely the wrong operation.’
The Monster executed a jubilant dance.
‘I would never have recommended a Scarfe osteotomy. Or an Aiken shaft, for that matter. Not on a foot like this.’ He pointed to the pre-operation X-ray, which he had put up on a screen above his desk. ‘I don’t want to criticize Mr Hughes, of course, but let’s face it, Lorna, none of us gets it right all of the time.’
‘Do any of you get it right any of the time?’ the Monster asked scathingly.
Lorna tried without success to move her rigid second toe, which since the operation seemed to have turned from flesh to wood.
‘With all these complications, Mr W … er, Bertram, do you think the orthoses will be any help?’
‘They may give you some temporary relief, but frankly you’ll never sort out that left foot without further surgery. And the right is grossly deformed. Which means radical procedures. And I wouldn’t advise you to leave it too long. With every month that passes, the deformity will increase, until –’
‘Top yourself,’ urged the Monster. ‘Less bother. Cheaper too.’
‘What I’d suggest is a base wedge osteotomy on the first metatarsal. I’d secure it with a screw and possibly insert a titanium joint implant –’
‘You?’ said Lorna, confused. ‘You’re not a surgeon, are you?’
‘But of course I am. Without wanting to sound immodest, I think I can fairly claim to be one of the best podiatrist surgeons in the country. And quite honestly, Lorna, podiatrist surgeons are a far better bet than orthopods. With all due respect to Mr Hughes, orthopaedic surgeons spend most of their time doing hips and knees, whereas we concentrate on feet, and feet alone. You might have spared yourself a lot of trouble by coming to me in the first place. In fact if you’re asking me if you could sue for negligence …’
Sue? She stared at him in shock. First her father and now Mr Hughes – criminally negligent.
He gestured dismissively at her left foot. ‘Well, frankly this is a mess, and I can’t pretend it’ll be easy to put right. It’s going to entail a great deal of surgery.’
She’d already had a great deal. ‘Mr Hughes did, um, lose his saw, which meant he had to postpone my operation. For hours. He told me afterwards how furious he was. Do you think that might have affected his work?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me. Only last month one of my former patients was operated on by an orthopaedic surgeon, and believe it or not the chappie found he didn’t have the right sort of screwdriver to remove a special screw I’d put in. His secretary rang me when he was actually in theatre and I had to send my own personal screwdriver by courier from here to St Mary’s, Paddington.’
‘Saws? Screwdrivers?’ the Monster scoffed. ‘These surgeons are a load of cack-handed carpenters. Don’t trust him an inch, however good he says he is. If his surgery’s anything like his dress sense you’re in dead trouble – and I mean dead.’
Lorna dragged her mind from the hapless patient lying anaesthetized all day on the operating-table while the courier fought his way through heavy traffic. It was a fair distance from Plumstead to Paddington. ‘So what would you suggest?’
‘Well, you’ll need four osteotomies in all, if we include the tailor’s bunion. And that ridge of bone on the fourth toe needs to be excised. And I would definitely advise redoing the …’
She suddenly felt like Red Riding Hood confronted by the wolf: Mr Weekes was positively drooling as he gazed at her feet, enraptured by the prospect of hacking into them.
‘Why I’m so successful, Lorna, is that I’m extremely careful to fit the procedure to the individual. There are a hundred and fifty different operations that can be performed on the feet, but if the surgeon gets it wrong …’
‘The patient never walks again,’ the Monster smirked.
‘Mind you, it’s only fair to warn you that, although the base wedge osteotomy gives a much higher level of correction, it is less stable during the healing period. Which means that instead of a bandage you’d have to be in plaster for six weeks. And it may take longer to heal than last time.’
‘You’ll be in hospital for years then. Well, at least it’ll save you looking for somewhere to live.’
‘But everything depends on the surgeon, Lorna, and his particular skills, or lack of them. If you’d like testimonials, I can put you in touch with some of my grateful patients.’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ the Monster interjected. ‘He sounds like a double-glazing salesman.’
‘One or two had similar experiences to you, Lorna – surgery made matters worse. But speak to them now and you’ll find they’re all delighted.’
‘Those that can still hobble to a phone.’
‘And you won’t have all the trauma of a general anaesthetic. I use just a local.’
‘You mean I’d still be … awake?’
‘Yes, but it’s nothing to worry about. You’d hear a bit of crunching and grinding’ – he gave a jovial grin – ‘but I’d talk you through it. I always chat with my patients, tell them a few good jokes. Sometimes they’re laughing so much they hardly notice what I’m up to.’
She sprang off the couch with as much dexterity as she could manage. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Weekes’ (to hell with Bertram), ‘it’s out of the question. And I don’t think I’ll even bother with the scan. What’s the point of orthoses if you say I’m, well, practically crippled?’
‘Come, come, my dear, I said no such thing.’
‘That’s what it sounded like to me.’ And I’m not your dear.
‘Well, I’m sorry if I alarmed you.’ He patted her hand condescendingly. ‘Perhaps you’re not quite ready for such a major procedure. What I could do instead is remove the fibular sesamoid bone in the inside of the great toe. That would loosen the joint.’
‘Yeah, loosen it so much you’d pro
bably collapse in a heap.’
‘Alternatively, we could do just the tailor’s bunion. That’s a simpler option altogether. And you don’t have to live with that neuroma. If the pain-killers aren’t working I can perform a neurectomy. You need to think of the future, Lorna. After all, you’ve got years of active life ahead.’
‘He obviously needs the business. You’d better agree to something or you’ll never get away.’
‘No, Mr Weekes, I’d rather avoid any surgery at all – at least for the present. I have a few … personal problems.’
‘A few?’ The Monster counted on his claws: ‘Ralph in terminal decline, the house still on the market, Bowden not paid off, no job and nowhere to live, and –’
‘Well, we can’t let you continue in all that discomfort. If you’re unwilling to have surgery, then I’d definitely recommend orthoses.’
‘Which is why I came to you in the first place,’ she pointed out irritably, with a surreptitious glance at her watch. At this rate, it would be midnight before she and Paul had dinner. ‘But what I’m still unsure about is whether they’ll do any good.’
‘Of course they won’t,’ the Monster sneered. ‘He’s just out to make money. He’s lost his five grand for carving bits off your feet, but he’ll settle for five hundred for a pair of mingy insoles.’
‘Good gracious yes!’ Mr Weekes enthused. ‘I wouldn’t invest in a state-of-the-art scanner unless it gave damned good results. Ours is the only one of its kind in the whole of the UK, you know. We’re extremely fortunate to have it. Or perhaps I should say foolish – ha ha! It set me back sixty thousand pounds.’
‘No wonder he needs cash fast. Get out while you’re still solvent.’
‘Why it’s so useful is that it allows us to examine the motion of the joints while the patient is actually walking. And, from what I’ve seen so far, you definitely have problems with your gait. Just take a few more steps for me, will you, Lorna. Mm … you’re turning the left foot out more than you should. It may be that the left hip’s displaced.’
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