by Jo Verity
‘Much as usual,’ she said. ‘Yours?’
‘Unremarkable.’
‘You’re a doctor,’ she said. ‘A real doctor.’
‘So they tell me.’
‘Aren’t you constantly worrying you’ll get it wrong?’
‘Ninety-nine percent of it’s straightforward. Hernias. Tonsillitis. Athlete’s foot. You could diagnose most of my patients.’
‘But aren’t you terrified you’ll miss something?’
‘When in doubt I refer them to a consultant.’
‘I’m sure there’s more to it than that,’ she said.
‘My parents said doctors were glorified mechanics. It was a case of identifying the knocking sound in the engine.’
‘Do you see much of your children?’ she said.
‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘We’re covering the ground.’
‘Do you?’
‘Not as much as I should.’ He frowned. ‘They seem to have decided their mother needs them more than I do.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Lyon. But let’s not talk about her.’
‘What did your sisters do in the end?’ she said. ‘I liked them very much. I always felt they were on my side.’
‘Caroline died of meningitis. When she was twenty-four. That was really difficult for all of us. Then Helen got religion big time. She’s a nun, would you believe?’
‘That’s so sad. Don’t you ever—’
‘Can we do this on a need-to-know basis?’ he said.
The clock on the digital radio showed ten-twenty. She really should go to bed.
‘I told Dad I’d be with them for coffee.’ She paused. ‘I was hoping you’d come with me.’
‘Have you told them we’re in contact?’
‘I haven’t got ’round to that yet.’
He was gathering up the plates, scraping debris from the meal into the bin and he stopped what he was doing and turned to face her. ‘What happened last time… I don’t think I could go through that again.’
This reference to her parent’s rejection and, obliquely, to her betrayal was painful but he had every right to bring it up.
‘They’ve changed,’ she said. ‘Staying alive takes every jot of their energy. They’re selfish but they’re not stupid. They know if they fall out with me, they’ll be completely on their own.’
‘What happened to your brother?’ he said.
‘Danny? Remember he went off to America? Well, he never came back. One day I’ll bore you with the whole thing.’
‘You really want me to come?’
‘Could you bear it? You needn’t stay long. I’ll explain you’re on call.’
He looked sheepish. ‘About that.’ He picked up a J-cloth and made a few swipes at the work top. ‘I swapped with a colleague. I needed a reason why you had to come here.’ He worked at a blob of gravy. ‘Nice though they are, I didn’t think I’d be able to make love to you with your family under the same roof.’
She felt her cheeks burning.
‘Poor Mim. I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?’
‘No. Well. A bit.’
‘What did you hope would happen when you left that note?’ He spoke softly as if coaxing the truth from a child.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think you do.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I hoped you’d get in touch, of course. But I wasn’t sure you’d want to. Not after the way I treated you.’
‘You were in an impossible position,’ he said.
‘Don’t be too understanding or I’ll cry.’
He caught her hand. ‘May I kiss you?’ he said. ‘Properly kiss you.’
The first kiss was tentative, questioning. The next, gentle at first then becoming greedier. He was holding her tight against him, crushing her breasts, his belt buckle pressing into her stomach. She smelled the earthiness of his hair, not quite concealed by tangy shampoo. The chemistry that had never failed was instant and potent.
‘Like riding a bike,’ he murmured, as if he could read her mind.
She placed a hand on his chest and pushed gently. ‘Maybe we should—’
‘Please don’t suggest we slow down.’
‘But—’
‘When I give patients the bad news, the first thing they ask is, “How long have I got”?’
‘You’re not ill?’ she said.
‘No. But neither of us knows how long we’ve got.’ He paused. ‘Sorry. That was tactless.’
He was imagining that she was still raw after Sam’s death. Another conversation they would have to have.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘When you reach our age, I reckon it’s time to speed up not slow down. And it’s not as if we’re strangers. I know you can’t stand spinach and you fancy – or used to – Robert Redford. God I wanted to strangle that man.’
‘Spinach still makes me gag,’ she said.
‘See. I always remember the things that matter.’
‘Is it that simple?’
‘Yes.’ He folded her in his arms again and she relaxed against him. ‘This is a heart not head thing.’ He ran a hand up and down her spine. ‘You’re too thin.’
‘I love you,’ she said. ‘Shall we go to bed now?’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I am.’
12
It was seven minutes pasteleven when Miriam rang the doorbell.
‘Bad traffic?’ her father said.
She ignored the snipe. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Sitting down. She’s feeling woozy.’
Her mother was in the living room, ensconced in the winged chair which she and Sam had given her for her eightieth. When she saw Miriam she smiled and reached out her hand. ‘There you are.’
Miriam took her hand, feeling its bird-bone fragility. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better for seeing you.’
‘Did you eat a proper breakfast?’
Her mother looked towards her husband as she so often did when asked a question.
‘We had porridge and toast,’ he said.
‘Why don’t I make us some coffee?’ Miriam said. ‘You stay here. I’ll bring it through.’
Once in the kitchen, she phoned Bing.
‘Most likely low blood pressure,’ he said. ‘Encourage her to move around a bit. Get the blood pumping.’
‘That doesn’t sound very scientific,’ she said.
‘Like I said, medicine is largely suck-it-and-see.’ He paused. ‘Have you told them I’m coming?’
‘I’ll do it soon. I promise.’
A tray stood ready on the kitchen table, coffee granules in three of the ‘best’ cups, biscuits arranged in a swirl on a plate. She made the coffee and carried the tray into the living room. Setting one of the nest of tables alongside her mother’s chair, she sat on the floor near the hearth where a meagre fire was generating next to no heat.
‘Is anyone else chilly?’ she said, taking the tongs and piling on coal from the brass scuttle.
Despite the profligate use of fuel, her father seemed relieved that someone else had taken the reins and, as he nibbled a digestive biscuit, he sneaked longing glances towards the door.
They chatted, covering well-worn ground. The snow. Naomi and the children. The new neighbours who’d had the gall to tear out the laurel hedge and replace it with a fence.
‘D’you remember Paul Crosby?’ she said when they’d run out of chit-chat.
‘The boy you dumped for Sam?’ her father said. ‘Tall. Fancied his chances.’
‘It wasn’t quite like that, Dad.’
He waved his hand, swatting away her protestation. ‘What about him?’
‘Well, he became a GP. He’s worked all over the place but now he’s come back here. To a practice in Monkton Square.’
‘Doctor Oates is our doctor,’ her mother said. ‘If she can’t fit us in we see Doctor Sherriff.’
‘What’s this got to do with us?’ her father said.
S
he ploughed on. ‘He called at the house last week.’
‘He didn’t come here,’ he said.
‘Not here. Naomi’s. He got my address from a mutual friend.’
‘Who would that be?’
‘That’s not important, Dad. The thing is, he’s going to drop in later. That’s okay, isn’t it?’
She’d anticipated a rant, or at least a dig. Instead her father directed his attention towards the newspaper. ‘As long as he doesn’t tire your mother.’
Remembering what Bing had said, Miriam suggested it might be an idea for her mother to stretch her legs. She helped her up from the chair and they made their way into the kitchen whilst her father escaped to the dining room.
‘You remember Paul, don’t you?’ Miriam said as she washed the coffee cups.
‘Of course. A nice-looking boy.’
Her mother, tea towel in hand, was staring out at the winter garden. ‘The snow’s nearly gone,’ she said. ‘We did what we thought was best. For you and for Danny.’
Miriam let it go. It was too late – years too late – to have this conversation.
‘You were fond of this Paul, weren’t you?’
‘Yes I was. And I still am. He’s fond of me, too.’
Her mother pointed. ‘Look. There’s a robin on the feeder.’
‘I said Paul and I are—’
‘I heard you, dear.’
The doorbell rang and Miriam hurried to answer it. Bing was holding a bunch of bronze chrysanthemums.
‘How’s it going?’ he whispered.
Before she could answer, her father appeared from the dining room. Caught between the two men, the old anxiety took hold.
‘Hello, Mr Edlin,’ Bing said, smiling over her shoulder.
After an exchange of niceties, they ended up in the kitchen where her mother was fiddling with the wrapper on a sliced loaf.
‘I don’t know why you’ve brought your visitor into the kitchen,’ she said.
‘Nothing wrong with the kitchen, Mrs Edlin,’ he said. ‘It’s the heart of the home.’ He held out the flowers, their sharp scent filling the room. ‘Only chrysanths, I’m afraid.’
‘For me? How lovely. And they last.’
Miriam hunted for a vase whilst her mother fussed about, trimming stems and stripping off leaves.
‘Miriam tells us you’re a doctor,’ her father said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Would that be private or NHS?’
‘Dad…’
Bing shot her an I’ve got this glance. ‘NHS, Mr Edlin. The state educated me and it’s my duty to serve the state. That’s the way I see it.’
Her father nodded approval. They talked for a while about the ’flu outbreak and the closure of a nearby hospital. Bing was deferential, addressing her father as ‘Sir’. He picked up additional brownie points when he volunteered to look at the dripping lavatory cistern.
‘He’s very handsome,’ her mother said after the men had gone off to diagnose the problem. ‘It makes a difference when a man keeps his hair.’ She leaned closer. ‘Anyone can see that he dotes on you.’
Bing’s presence appeared to inject her parents with a surge of vitality. They became animate. Even frivolous. Perhaps they considered a doctor in the house to be a safety net against medical crises. Miriam was astounded at their readiness to accept the man whom they had once banished from her life. Bing amazed her too. Warm. Reassuring. Letting them have their say. Bonding with the people who had, in effect, stolen her from him. Lunch went well. Her mother had prepared her speciality – chicken soup with barley. They ate in the kitchen which made it feel very much a family affair. Miriam allowed herself to relax a little. After they’d finished, she and Bing offered to do the washing up whilst her parents napped by the fire.
‘You’re a miracle worker,’ she said. ‘I was sure it would end in tears but they’ve taken you to their bosom. Ironic, don’t you think?’
‘If they have, let’s be grateful,’ he said.
He was at the sink, hands immersed in washing-up water, and she came up behind him and leaned against his back, clasping her arms around his chest.
‘I’m frightened I’ll wake up and this will all be a dream,’ she said.
When they could put it off no longer, they joined her parents in the living room. Her father had banked up the fire and switched on several table lamps although it was still light.
‘I was hoping you could spare Miriam this evening,’ Bing said. They were sitting primly on the sofa, a couple of adolescents in an era when parental permission was obligatory for everything. She’d spotted salmon fillets and a tiny piece of lamb in the fridge – this evening’s supper and tomorrow’s lunch. It would be unkind to abandon her parents, and possibly reignite hostilities and she wished he’d thought to mention his intention to go out.
‘I’ll have supper here with you first, of course,’ she said, ‘then maybe Paul and I could pop out for a quick drink.’
‘We like to be in bed by ten,’ her father said.
Bing caught Miriam’s hand in a demonstration of intent. ‘We’ll be quiet coming in, won’t we, Mim?’
‘He’s divorced, you say,’ her father said after Bing had left.
She was prepared for the post-mortem. ‘Yes. Not long ago. But he and his wife separated quite a while before that.’
‘Have you two been in touch all these years?’ He was watching her intently.
She shook her head. ‘We made a clean break when I started seeing Sam. I had no idea what had become of Paul until your neighbour’s New Year party.’
The reference to Sam might prick his conscience. And laying her reunion with Bing at their door – she’d never have gone to that party were it not for them – would do no harm. Now he’d quiz her about who had contacted whom, and the ins and outs of Bing’s visit to Naomi’s, but at that moment an ember tumbled onto the hearth rug, causing a kerfuffle and curtailing the inquisition.
Thanks to her parents’ habit of eating supper before six, everything was cleared away when Bing called for her at seven.
‘Your ears must be on fire,’ she said, ‘in a good way. They think you’re wonderful.’
‘Can’t imagine why. Perhaps I’m no longer a threat to the family’s reputation.’
They were sitting in the car outside the house and he reached across and jangled her earring. ‘Shall we go to mine?’
When they arrived at his house, a bottle of champagne, still chilled, and two glasses stood on the table next to the bed.
She laughed. ‘You’re very sure of yourself, Doctor Crosby.’
He opened the bottle cautiously, barely spilling a drop. ‘Here. Doctor’s orders.’
When they’d drunk enough champagne, he sat on the bed and patted the place next to him. ‘Come and lie next to me.’
The lay side by side, and before too long, the champagne and the smell of his skin and the touch of his lips, made lovemaking easy and inevitable.
Afterwards, they talked.
‘When shall we tell them?’ he said.
‘Whom? What?’
He circled her breast with his finger. ‘The whole world that we’re in love.’
‘Have you said anything to your children?’ she said.
‘Not yet.’
She wondered whether he’d ever told Eloise about her – his first lover. Men weren’t inclined to that sort of revelation. It had been obvious from Sam’s skill in bed that he’d been with women before her, but they’d never gone into it. He must have known she and Bing had been lovers but he’d never mentioned it.
‘They’ll think you’ve taken leave of your senses,’ she said.
‘Probably.’
They lay together, silent and content. Destiny – fate – fortune – whatever people wanted to call it, no longer seemed an absurd construct. Their coming back together had been inevitable, she saw that now. Bing belonged to her, she to him. It was hard not to regret all those missed years. But he was right. They mustn�
�t waste time raking over what might have been. Besides, there were consolations. Had life taken the less circuitous path, Naomi, Rosa and Max wouldn’t exist, and that was unthinkable.
Neither of them was fit to drive and Bing called a cab. She was quite able to get herself home but he insisted on going with her, saying the walk back to his house would clear his head. They paid off the taxi and, for old-time’s sake, lingered in the shadows near the gate.
‘Tomorrow?’ he said.
‘I’ll drop in for a cuppa on my way home.’
‘I trust that’s a euphemism,’ he said.
‘I think you’ll find it’s a hot drink.’
‘You’re a hard woman.’
‘I’ve had to be,’ she said. ‘Now off you go.’
As she crept up the stairs, she wished there were someone she could talk to about this miracle that was unfolding. Frankie was the only one who’d understand. Maybe Danny too. He’d surely be pleased for her. Her parents’ bedroom door was ajar and she paused to listen, picturing them lying like marble effigies on a medieval tomb. Her father was snoring, steadily marking the passing time as he and his wife drew nearer their end. It was too sad.
