“Terrance!”
“I’m only asking, Barbara. She’s a clever kid. If anyone can catch up she can. Comes from clever stock eh, Simon?”
Sarah looked up from her chicken. “English is okay, but I’m rubbish at math. I hate math. I missed the seven and eight times tables and the whole beginning of fractions. Caitlin Harris is worse than me though. She doesn’t even know her two times table and she never misses school. Oh and Jacob Davidson got detention and had his lunch monitor badge taken off him because he said I was a freak with no hair and Mrs. Bainbridge heard him. Did I tell you, Dad says we can take Porridge to the dog show?” Sarah swerved the conversation suddenly, as seven year olds are apt to do.
“You should have thumped him, lass.”
“Terrance!”
“What?”
“How’s everything at the surgery, Simon? Shall I top you up?” Diana glugged cheap red into her son-in-law’s glass and filled her own. “Everyone still off having babies?”
Simon took a sip from his replenished glass. “The Practice Manager is back, thank God, but the Practice Nurse goes on Maternity Leave next week and one of the admin staff has decided she’s not coming back. Also, there are talks about the surgery shutting and us moving into a sparkly new Medical Centre in town. The local ladies of leisure have embraced it as a ‘cause’ and keep popping up with placards. Add to the mix that every person who’s sneezed or coughed in the last month thinks they’ve got Swine ‘Flu, it’s been a pretty fun week.”
Diana scoffed. “Swine ‘Flu. Load of stuff and nonsense. How’s the florists, Melissa?”
“Not bad, Mum. Ticking over. Can’t expect better in this climate. We’re starting floristry courses – glass of wine thrown in, learn how to hand-tie a bouquet, that kind of thing. Got a wedding coming up next Saturday. I’m hoping Swine ‘Flu is going to take off – lots of funerals…”
“That’s not very nice, Mum.” Sarah said quietly.
There was a slight pause. “Your Mum’s just kidding, Tiger. Load of sensationalized nonsense anyway. It’ll all be over by the end of the week. Now tell your old Granddad about this dog show. What’s Porridge going in for then? Best Fed Dog?” Porridge put his chin in Terry’s lap, hoping for another bit of chicken.
Barbara got up. “I’ll help you clear, love. Who wants custard and who wants cream?”
* * *
“That was a pretty crass remark you made over lunch.”
Simon and Melissa leaned against the counters in the kitchen as Simon poured the last of the wine. The grandparents had gone in the same flurry of kisses as they had arrived, and Sarah was drinking warm milk and watching cartoons in the sitting room.
“I know. I didn’t think.”
“Didn’t think? Christ, Melissa, how can you think of anything else? If our daughter catches a bloody cold it could kill her, never mind Swine ‘Flu. What, are you planning to do the flowers for her funeral, too?”
“Simon, that’s a disgusting thing to say. You’re drunk.”
“A little.” Simon sighed heavily. “Come on. Let’s get her off to bed then we can watch Midsomer Murders.”
“Dad, can I watch Midsomer Murders?” Sarah’s head popped through the kitchen door. “I’ll be very quiet.”
“No, darling, you’ve school tomorrow. You look shattered anyway. Go on, go up and get those teeth brushed and I’ll come up and read you a story.”
Sarah traipsed off, muttering, Porridge faithfully in tow.
“I’m sorry, Mel. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that with things looking so much better … you are using the antibacterial wipes, aren’t you?”
“Don’t worry, Simon. We’re going to be fine. She’s a fighter, we’ve been through the worst.”
“I know. Come here, give me a hug. That was a cracking roast you did today, honey - my Dad always said - at least she can cook.” He gathered his wife into his arms but quickly leaped back, laughing as Melissa pretended to clip him around the ear. “Are you ready for me, Sarah?” Simon yelled up the stairs, dodging as Melissa changed tactic and tried to flick him with a tea towel. “I hope those teeth have been cleaned properly…”
* * *
Upstairs, Sarah rinsed out the sink and held her toothbrush under the tap. There was no need for Dad to see all the blood that had streamed from her mouth as she gently brushed. They’d been bleeding again like that for a week now but it didn’t hurt.
Dad would only worry.
Chapter 3
“No, no, Mr Varley, you did the right thing making an appointment. Always better to err on the side of caution.”
Erring on the side of caution was not something Mr Varley actually needed encouragement to do. As one of Simon’s most determined hypochondriacs, Ernest Varley visited his doctor at least once a month, and frequently more. The mole that Simon had just inspected, sited as far down Mr Varley’s back as is possible before it became an internal examination, was fine. Mr Varley’s moles, pains, veins, coughs and aches were always fine.
His previous three patients - a teenage girl dragged in by her mother who wanted her prescribed the pill, a particularly odious four year old with conjunctivitis and a jolly lady with quite the worst fungal nail infection he had ever seen – had all been dealt with quickly and he was, for once, running on time. As long as the Practice Meeting didn’t over-run (and without Howard, the Senior Partner, there to meddle it wasn’t likely to) he should be away and in his car for 6 p.m.
He saw Mr Varley to the door then pulled at his tie, unbuttoning his top shirt button.
His consulting room was small, but full of light, with an unobstructed view of the small town's scrubby park.
Brighouse was not an attractive town. Any proof of its bustling industrial past was limited to a couple of handsome Edwardian high street bank buildings and a couple of cheaply done mill conversions. The canal and river that ran through the town had been tidied up, and an attempt made at creating ‘waterside living’. A number of family delis and bistros had managed to find sufficient business to tick over, but the main shopping street looked tired. The serried ranks of West Riding back to back terraces were largely uncared for. Vast council estates provided housing for legions of impoverished families who kept Simon’s practice busy with teenage pregnancies, alcohol and drug related illnesses, and ailments caused by bad nutrition. There had even been a recent case of rickets – an illness supposedly wiped out by 50 years of improved national nourishment.
Simon had grown up in a 1960s two bedroom semi’, in the South Yorkshire town of Barnsley. Not poor, but certainly not well off, his working class parents had encouraged him to study hard and believe in himself. His nights were spent furiously scribbling away in his bedroom at a desk made out of bricks and an old door. Terry and Barbara had been so sure of his place at Barnsley Grammar School that they had saved for two years so they could buy him a watch for passing his eleven-plus entrance exam.
His school days were unremarkable. He kept his nose down, largely eschewing the common distractions of girls and stolen cigarettes. He was no ‘square’. He managed the occasional school disco grope and he got drunk on cheap cider once or twice – the most memorable occasion being when he was sick in his friend’s mother’s goldfish bowl. (The fish were still in it).
Still, Simon worked hard, his natural ability greatly enhanced by his determined nature. It came as no surprise when he was given a place at Leeds Medical School. A steady student career followed, in which he adequately met the course requirements but failed to shine by the highly competitive standards of the prestigious medical college.
In the summer term of his final year, his last surviving grandmother died, leaving her house and a small nest egg to his father. For four years, Simon made daily commutes from their small terraced house in Barnsley to Leeds, using the 50 minute train journey to study. Whilst the journey was not arduous, he was largely left out of ‘student living’ and had only a small circle of friends as a result. His father, deciding hi
s son deserved the full student experience, bequeathed his inherited house to Simon and with this grand gesture bought Simon a social life.
The house, a little red brick, three-bedroom terrace in the Burley Park area, became a Mecca for (what felt like) much of the student population of Leeds. Since it was privately owned and not subject to the rules and regulations of a long-suffering landlord, the parties were frequent and legendary. His flatmates, who paid a small rent to Simon’s dad, painted the previously floral sitting room black and installed marshal stacks and disco lights. The house shook to the strains of Guns 'n’ Roses and Def Leppard. The neighbors gave up complaining and bought earplugs.
Simon had never met most of the people who passed through his front door, filling the avocado colored bath with bottles of beer and throwing up spectacularly in his toilet.
During one such night, he staggered into his room, intending to sleep before an important ward round the next day. In the gloom he tripped over a body on the floor. Irritated at this intrusion of his personal space, he woke her up, and then spent half an hour holding her hair back whilst she vomited cheap red wine and cheesy puffs into his basin. For the rest of the night they sat on his bed, talking about everything and anything.
By the time dawn broke, he had fallen in love.
He lent her a Motorhead t-shirt since her Lurex boob tube was unsuitable for the early morning walk home. It also provided a perfect excuse to see her again. Melissa was an art student. Her moderately wealthy parents had set her up with digs near the School of Art and they began to meet each day to drink coffee in her pretty little kitchenette, talking about everything from politics to George Michael to Rubens and surgical procedures.
They didn't kiss for three weeks. When they did, it felt right. A Liebfraumilch-fuelled mutual loss of their virginity sealed their couple status. Melissa moved into the Burley Park terrace, sent Simon’s tenants packing and started saving for Laura Ashley wallpaper. Anxious to start her life as a grown-up, and realizing that she had expensive taste in soft furnishings, she dropped out of her art degree and took a part-time job in the glove department of Marshall & Snelgrove’s Department Store.
Even now, twelve years later, it still felt right. Mostly. The last two years had been hard. The worry, the overnight vigils at the hospital and the constant fear for Sarah had an impact on their relationship. Simon felt they had drifted apart a little. Sometimes it felt as if they were little more than friends. Friends who happened to sleep in the same bed and share a bank account. But, after all he assured himself, it had been twelve years. Of course some of the passion had gone.
He put the photo of Melissa back on his desk, next to one of Sarah and Porridge. He’d nip over to Sainsbury’s later and grab a bottle of wine before the practice meeting. He knew better than to buy Melissa supermarket flowers, but perhaps he’d get her a box of chocolates or a special bubble bath as a treat. Things were so much better at home now. It was time to spend some time on his marriage.
* * *
“Wine and bubble bath. I am a lucky girl. What’s the occasion?” Melissa stretched luxuriantly in the gardenia-scented bath water and took the glass of Gewürztraminer Simon held out to her.
“Being married to you. Getting home on time for once. Loving my family and thinking perhaps I ought to say it more often. Want me to do your back?”
“Ooh, yes please. God, it must be two years since you washed my back for me, Simon. Do you remember that hotel? We did two bottles of champagne in the bath. It seems so very long ago now. Like we hadn’t grown up yet then.”
“A lot’s happened since then.” Simon unclipped his cufflinks and laid them on the edge of the bath, then rolled up his sleeves. “Anyway, we have grown up. You’re getting to the wrong end of your thirties. What do you want for your fortieth, old lady?”
“I’d like to be 21 again, please.”
“Not possible. How about a tumble dryer?”
“Done.”
* * *
“… David Cameron threw down the gauntlet last night, when he told Jeremy Paxman that Labour were out...” Simon switched off the morning news and slipped his hands around Melissa’s waist.
Melissa jabbed one elbow into his ribs and he grunted. “Oi! I was listening to that. Give Sarah a shout will you? She’s still not surfaced. Do you want a bacon sandwich as well?”
“Yes, and I’ll pretend you said muesli. I’ll go get lazy bones.” Simon gave his wife a lingering kiss on the neck. “Last night was fun. I should bring you goodies home more often.”
“Yes, you should.”
Simon patted his wife fondly on the bottom and went off in search of Sarah. Her door was plastered with colorful ‘Girls Rool’ and ‘Kids only - keep out!’ stickers, and it was closed. He was surprised to find the room still dark, Sarah's hunched shape still curled under the covers. “Sarah! It’s ten past eight.” Simon pulled open the High School Musical curtains. “Sarah?”
“I’m sleepy. Leave me alone.”
“Sarah, honey, are you ill?”
“No, Dad, I’m just tired. Can I stay at home today?”
“Sarah, sit up. I want to look at you. Do you think we should take you in? How long have you been feeling tired? Do you have any pain? Headache?” Simon sat down on the bed and pressed his fingers against his daughter’s neck. “Does this hurt? You don’t feel swollen.”
Sarah groaned and turned over to face him. “I’m just tired, Dad. That’s all. I’m OK, I’ll get up now.”
“Okay, but you’re sure you’re alright? Just tired? You can stay home if you want. I’ll call Grandma Aitch, have her take you back to her house…”
“I’m fine, Dad. Really.”
“Alright. But call me at lunchtime if you want picking up, okay? Now hurry up, you’ve got ten minutes and I want you downstairs. Mum’s made you a bacon sandwich. Hey! Last monthly check-up session next week, isn’t it? Shall we do something to celebrate? How about Pizza Hut and a film?”
“Yeah, I’d like that. Can I bring a friend? Can Izzy come?”
“Yes, tell her to ask her mum today. You can invite someone else as well if you like. Come on now, up and at 'em.”
Simon grabbed a tie from his wardrobe and headed back to the kitchen. “Have you noticed any changes in Sarah recently? Is she more tired at the moment?”
“No, I don’t think so. I certainly struggle to get her to bed at night. I think it’s just that she’s back at school full time; she’s got a lot on, keeping up with the rest of them. Who does want to get up at this time of year? I hate getting up in the dark.”
“Alright. Well, keep an eye on it, yeah? Last monthly check up’s next week, yes?
“Yup.”
“Good. We’ll take her and her friends out for pizza to celebrate.” He peered at the sandwiches that Melissa had prepared and left on the side.“ Has this one got brown sauce in it? Can I grab it and go? I’m running behind. Thanks, love. See you tonight – I’ll be a bit late, I’m going down to St Matthew’s to help move the stacks of chairs out of the small hall. Have a good day. Get down, Porridge.”
Simon kissed his wife and dashed out of the door, bacon butty in hand, briefcase in the other. It was barely light outside, the street lamps shining orange dapples on the wet tarmac. He swung open his car door and tossed in his briefcase, then lowered himself into the driver's seat. Inside the car, he balanced his breakfast on one leg while brushing off blonde Labrador hairs from his suit. He wondered if eight years old was too late to send a dog for training, then slid his key in the ignition and steered his Jaguar out of the drive.
* * *
The Scouts were already helping the Rev Duncan Hughes when Simon turned up a little past seven that evening.
“Sorry, sorry – I got held up. I see you found some helpers, though.” Simon watched a small boy attempt to lift a stack of eight chairs before coming to his senses and splitting the tower into more manageable twos. Trying not to sound like an overbearing grown up, he stepped toward t
he next stack of chairs. “Here, let me give you a hand.”
“Simon, it was good of you to offer at all. I do have some excellent helpers. I think Mrs. Hughes is planning to reward them all with squash and biscuits in the vicarage. We may be able to find something a little more fortifying for ourselves, if you take my meaning. Harry, ask Akela to bring you all over when you’ve finished, will you? Come on, Simon. There’s not much more to do here and I want to show you my new bantams.”
Simon followed the amiable vicar out of a side door of the church and across the road to the small house that served as a vicarage. The original Victorian vicarage had been sold off long before. It was considered too grand for a modern vicar with his small family, and too big an asset to be wasted on the vicar of a minute and shrinking congregation in the backwaters of West Yorkshire. The 1960s dormer bungalow opposite St Matthew’s now served as accommodation for the Rev Duncan Hughes and his wife.
Having no children to fill the four-bedroom property, Rev and Mrs. Hughes had fulfilled their parental instincts by acquiring a bewildering number of animals. Two Jack Russells yapped at the window, their claws tappetty-tapping on the wide windowsills. When Simon stepped inside, he was immediately nearly bowled over by an enormous husky.
“Rasputin, leave him alone.”
“It’s alright. He can smell Porridge. You’re a handsome boy, aren’t you? Hullo, Mrs. Hughes. I hear you’re expecting the entire Brighouse West Scout Brigade for tea.”
“Simon, how lovely to see you. I am. I’m just getting some biscuits out. Would you like a cup of tea, or is Duncan going to sort you out with a whisky?” Mrs. Hughes, a tiny lady, with exquisite bone structure who habitually wore her hair in an elegant grey bob, looked up from the kitchen table, at which she was pouring twenty cups of orange squash. “Have you come to see my new girls?”
Simon's Choice Page 2
