In respect to this evening, however, he had already paid for the privilege, the event having been organised by Susan Hawkins as a charity event in aid of Oxfam. He had bought two tickets from Charles, in the hope that he might have been able to entice Janice to attend. However, her subsequent refusal had not been entirely unexpected. He had simply informed her that he would therefore attend alone and stay the night at the flat.
The event was in the first-floor function room of what was historically Bishopsworth’s Corn Exchange, but which now served as the Conservative Club. It was the first time he had set foot in the building and had been slightly perturbed to find it somewhat dark, with an atmosphere heavily laden with cigarette smoke. Numerous round tables were scattered around the room, most of which had been occupied by the time of his arrival. He recognised many of the people present, at least by sight if not by name. Susan and Charles Hawkins were sitting at a table just in front of where the wine merchant was speaking, accompanied by Ian and Mary McGarva. He knew that Richard Carey was on call for the practice. As for Tom Slater, he was supposed to be there, but despite twice scanning the gloomy room, James could not pinpoint his whereabouts. Not wishing to intrude on anyone’s personal social gathering, he had found a small table by the far wall, where he now sat alone.
‘…with a deliciously ripe and smooth body, strawberry and plum flavours, and a touch of spice, it is ready to drink now or, with careful cellaring, will keep for a further two to three years.’
James turned his attention back to the words of the presenter, took a small sip of the wine and savoured the complex flavours as it rolled over his tongue.
‘As usual with red wines, it is best served at room temperature. Because it is so soft and fruity, it can be enjoyed on its own, in the company of pheasant and grouse or as an accompaniment to a fine cheese. I have several cases with me this evening. However, if anyone wishes to place a larger order, then I am able to arrange delivery within forty-eight hours.’
‘Being a little unsociable, aren’t you?’
James started at the voice from his left. Only just avoiding choking on the wine, he turned as Anna sat down in the chair next to him.
‘I take it you do not mind me joining you? Or are you waiting for someone?’
‘No. I mean yes… I mean…’
‘Well, make up your mind. Which is it to be?’
He laughed. ‘No, I am not waiting for anyone and yes, you may join me. Are you alone?’
‘If you are asking whether my husband is lurking in some dark corner, then I can assure you that he is not. Would it matter if he was?’
‘No, sorry… it’s just that you gave me the impression a while ago that he doesn’t like you going out without him.’
‘He doesn’t consider me being here with other members of staff as being out alone.’
‘I see.’
‘Are you going to buy anything?’
‘No, I don’t think so. To be truthful, I do not have anywhere to store it in Barminster. Come to that, I haven’t got anyone to share it with either.’
‘Janice doesn’t drink wine?’
‘Not of this quality. Lambrusco is more up her street.’
Anna pulled a face in reply. ‘So, I guess she hasn’t come with you this evening?’
‘No.’
An awkward silence followed. Detecting that she was treading on sensitive ground, she swiftly changed the subject. ‘How did you spend your afternoon off?’
‘I went to Helliton Abbey.’
‘On your own? Or is that a silly question?’
‘Yes.’ He grinned. ‘That’s affirmative to both questions. Why do you ask?’
‘No specific reason. Don’t you find it lonely, going to places on your own?’
‘Sometimes it helps to be alone.’
There followed another uneasy pause. Unnerved by Anna’s gaze, he toyed nervously with his glass, running his fingers around its rim.
‘Are you alright, James? You seem to have been rather quiet recently. We were discussing how you seem so detached when in the surgery.’ She gestured with her head towards the table she had just left. ‘We have all noticed it. You hardly ever come into reception anymore to say hello in the mornings and half the time we don’t know if you are still in the building or have left immediately after surgery.’
‘Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.’
‘Well, it doesn’t appear that way. I am beginning to think we have upset you. Either that or you have become somewhat arrogant since being made a partner.’
‘Is that how it seems?’ He looked surprised by Anna’s comments.
‘Yes. When you first arrived at the surgery, I thought you were a bit pompous and a bit of a perfectionist. In fact, I wasn’t even sure I liked you at all.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, you didn’t even speak to me for the first six months.’
‘But then you changed your mind?’
‘I was beginning to. Although, following recent events, I am not so sure that I wasn’t right in the first place.’
‘Ah.’
‘Is that all you can say?’
‘Well…’ He hesitated. ‘I could probably explain, but perhaps not now. Some other time maybe.’
‘What’s wrong, James? You act as though you are hiding something.’
‘I’m just a little unsure of where my life is going at present. That’s all.’
‘You mean you are unhappy being in Bishopsworth?’
‘No. That is not quite what I mean. There is a lot more to it than that. It all gets a little complicated. So much so that I sometimes wonder if I understand myself.’
‘Why not share your thoughts? Sometimes it does us good to give voice to them. It somehow seems to sort them out.’ She laughed. ‘Listen to me talking! Who is supposed to be the doctor around here?’
He gave a sheepish grin, drained the last of the wine sample and looked towards Anna’s empty glass. ‘Shall I order a bottle? Tasters are fine, but I could do with a proper drink.’
‘Is that an invitation for me to share it with you?’
‘You may take it as such.’
‘Then the answer is yes; and whilst we are doing that, you can explain to Aunty Anna what is troubling you.’
‘My private agony aunt?’
‘If you wish. You look as though you need one.’
James sat silently for a few moments, his eyes being gently explored by Anna’s returned gaze.
‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he said, getting up and walking towards the bar.
* * *
Later that same evening, James lay back in the hot water of his bath, enjoying the ticklish sensation of trapped air bubbles as they ran up his spine on their way to the surface. His head felt muzzy from the wine, but not the oppressive sensation from over-indulgence; rather, that delicious, floating sensation as though the mind was lifted free of the body and had the ability to soar to wherever its whim dictated.
In his hand, he held a copy of The Rule of St Benedict, through which he had been browsing whilst running the bath.
‘So, what does the good Benedict have to say about drinking alcohol?’ His question, though spoken aloud, was rhetorical, as the flat was otherwise empty. He flicked through the little red book until he found Chapter 40, titled ‘The Proper Amount of Drink’, and started to read aloud.
‘With due regard for the infirmities of the sick, we believe that half a bottle of wine a day is sufficient for each. But those to whom God gives the strength to abstain must know that they will earn their own reward.’
‘Hmm.’ He paused, pondering over the definition of being ‘sick’. Being certain about whether having troubled thoughts fell into that category and unconvinced about the virtues of abstinence, he scanned down the page and found a section more to his liking.
‘We read that monks should not drink wine at all, but since the monks of our day cannot be convinced of thi
s, let us at least agree to drink moderately, and not to the point of excess, for wine makes even wise men go astray.’
‘That’s more like it.’
He paused again whilst considering whether St Benedict would class his intake of the evening as being moderate and decided that, as he could still make sense of the saint’s writings, the answer was probably in the affirmative. He re-read the last line of the paragraph.
‘…for wine makes even wise men go astray.’
Once again, he decided that he would not be suffering the wrath of St Benedict, as his actions that evening could not be construed as ‘going astray’. However, be that so it may, the wine had certainly loosened his tongue. Anna had been right. It was sometimes good to talk.
He sank further into the bath and reflected on what had taken place over the previous few hours at the Conservative Club.
After he had returned from the bar with a bottle of the Rioja Crianza, he had poured two generous glasses and then proceeded to tell Anna about his current difficulties with Janice and his contrasting thoughts in respect to the priesthood. By the time the bottle was empty, Anna had just about heard all there was to tell. He had half-expected her to lecture him; but instead, she just sat there listening. It was only as everyone else was leaving that she had spoken. After thanking him for the wine, her words, if he remembered them correctly, were ‘I am glad you shared everything with me’. Then she got up, said goodnight and left. That was it. Nothing else. She just listened, thanked him and went home.
The peculiar thing, he thought as he absent-mindedly poked at the remaining bubbles from the bubble bath, was that she was right. Talking may not have solved the problems, but he did feel different having spoken about them. Perhaps it was because the burden he carried had been partially shared. He dropped the book onto the floor, shifted down the bath a little, and submerged his head under the water.
Overall, it had been a strangely satisfying day.
17
Bishopsworth, Lincolnshire
October
‘Goodbye, Mrs Avery. Don’t forget to make an appointment at reception to see the nurse next week.’
James held the door open whilst Mrs Avery, a seventy-two-year-old widow with rheumatoid arthritis, trundled her shopping trolley out of his consulting room. Pushing the door to again after her, he walked back to the desk and slumped down into his chair.
Every day at the surgery tended to be busy, with the end of the week being no exception. This particular Friday morning, however, was proving to be a marathon session. He glanced at the clock: half past ten. Most of the partners would now be heading upstairs to the boardroom for a cup of tea. Just how they ran to time was a mystery to James. He still had another two patients to see before he had completed the first of the morning’s surgeries. Yet again, he would be running straight into the second session of the day without so much as a break. Still, he was not one of the two doctors on duty for the weekend, so that was a blessing.
He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and then sat for a few moments with his fingers pressing into his temples. The pressure gave some relief from the constant throbbing headache, which had made its presence known even before he had opened his eyes that morning. No doubt, it was because of the wine from the night before, although the quantity had not seemed excessive at the time.
With an audible sigh, he reached across the desk and picked up the next set of notes. The tattered Lloyd George envelope contained a thin set of handwritten notes and few letters, belying the fact that the records belonged to a man well into his dotage. James stood, retraced his steps across the consulting room floor, entered the waiting area and called for the patient.
Mr Ernest Prendergast was clearly a gentleman of that institution commonly known as ‘the old school’. A devoutly Christian, octogenarian widower, he routinely attended the surgery to have his blood pressure checked and his medication renewed. On each occasion, regardless of the weather, he was guaranteed to be dressed in a tweed suit, complete with waistcoat, tie, polished brogue shoes, a raincoat and cloth cap.
James watched as he approached. Mr Prendergast was a timid man of predictable habit. As he entered the consulting room, his cap being nervously fingered by both hands, he hesitated and, as was his custom, gave James a slight bow.
‘Good morning, Mr Prendergast. Do come in and have a seat.’
‘Good morning, Doctor. Thank you for seeing me. I am so sorry for troubling you. I hope I am not a nuisance?’
‘Not in the slightest, Mr Prendergast.’ Again, James pointed to a chair. ‘Please do sit down.’
The consultation, having commenced with the usual respectful niceties, continued as a study in politeness, with Mr Prendergast portraying an air of subservience throughout. It was an attitude that James always thought of as being somewhat quaint, especially taking into account the difference in age between them.
‘I have been of the opinion, having given due regard to circumstances, and not wishing to imply any impropriety, nor wishing to intrude inappropriately on your most valuable time…’
With the air of a deep thinker, Mr Prendergast spoke quietly, slowly and at great length, giving enormous consideration to the construction of each of his sentences, which only made sense if you listened intently. Having known him for almost two years, James had come to understand him very well. He had evidently led a life steeped in moderation and, as certain of his difficulties revealed, could not be classed as a man of the world. Religion played a central role within his daily activities.
‘I am merely a humble person, Doctor. All I hope is that the good Lord will claim my soul in due course. When that time comes, I know that I will have to answer for how I have spent my life in this world. I must trust that I have been sufficiently dutiful in the eyes of God so as not to suffer his future wrath.’
‘I have no doubt that God will not find you lacking, Mr Prendergast.’
‘You are most kind.’ He glanced towards James, before again averting his eyes towards the floor.
With a bemused smile, James wrote a prescription for amoxicillin capsules and passed it across.
‘I think that should clear the problem.’
Mr Prendergast accepted the proffered script and stood up, collecting his cap from the floor in preparation to leave.
‘Thank you again for your valuable time, Doctor. It is most appreciated.’ He paused at the door and held his right hand out to James. ‘I am only sorry that I take up so much of it.’
James shook his hand. ‘Think nothing of it. It is what I am here for, Mr Prendergast.’
For a moment, the old man gazed at James with a depth of expression that only eighty years of life could replicate.
‘Thank you for your kindness. May God be with you.’ He turned and left the consulting room, his head bowed, shoulders hunched, and the cap once more being gently kneaded with both hands.
James watched the departing figure and pondered on the depth of humility portrayed. That it was genuine, he had no doubt. What troubled him was whether his own sense of worth was too great for the calling he felt was there. Were the standards set by this most humble of patients in fact those required of someone prepared to accept the cloth? He thought back to his reading of the night before. ‘Whoever exalts himself shall be humbled, and whoever humbles himself shall be exalted.’ Was that not how St Benedict had put it?
‘Sorry to disturb you, Dr Armstrong. It’s just that there is an urgent visit at Laurel House and I’ve had to put two extras on the end of the second session.’ The receptionist’s voice jolted James back to the present and he winced as she passed him the three sets of notes.
‘Thank you, Christine.’ He glanced at the details of the visit. ‘I’ll just see one more patient here and then go and do this. Perhaps you can explain to everyone that I shall be delayed for a short while?’
‘Of course. Let us know when you’re back and we’ll make sure you get a cup of tea.’ Christine nodded towards the reception area as if to clarify her
statement, turned and walked away before he could respond.
The next patient was a teenage boy. He was swiftly diagnosed as having tonsillitis and despatched with a prescription for penicillin. Within ten minutes, he was on his way to Laurel House Nursing Home, situated on the west side of town.
* * *
Two hours later, James picked up the notes for the final patient of the morning. His earlier visit had only taken a few moments as the ambulance had beaten him to the home. The elderly lady concerned had suffered a stroke and he admitted her to hospital. Thereafter, the second surgery of the morning had been straightforward. Despite the fact that he started it late, the simplicity of the cases allowed some time to be regained.
The notes now in his hand belonged to the second of the extras added to his list. He entered the waiting room and called Lisa Jones. There was no immediate response. A glance around the room revealed three people whom he presumed were waiting for the nurse. He walked further into the waiting room and glanced around the side of a pillar. It was then that he spotted Lisa Jones in the far corner. Eschewing the spare chairs, she was squatting cross-legged on a low window ledge. Her bleached-blonde, dreadlock-styled hair, the centre of which was dyed a contrasting bright red, fell in an untidy mass around her as she rocked gently to and fro in time to the music on her personal CD player. Calling her name had no effect and it required a gentle touch to her arm to return her attention to the present.
Following her into the consulting room, James noted the sharply contrasting colours of her purple leggings, grey-denim miniskirt and dirty yellow blouse; the outfit being completed by a pair of heavy, black walking boots and a gold cross, three-inches in dimension, hung from her neck by a long gold chain of equally considerable weight.
Lisa had been a patient of the practice since she was eleven. She was now twenty-seven. Reading between the lines of her extensive medical notes, James had the impression that her life to date could only be described as one of wild, drug-fuelled debauchery. Commencing with glue sniffing at thirteen, she had rapidly progressed to smoking cannabis, popping ecstasy tablets, snorting cocaine and injecting heroin, with liberal quantities of alcohol thrown in. It was not unknown for the final mixture to be topped up with the odd three or four barbiturates for good measure; a combination that had resulted in more than a few overnight visits to the casualty department.
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