by Maeve Binchy
“What did we talk about in the very old days?”
“Work, the children, each other.” He found the answers easily.
“Well, work is the safest. How's yours?”
“It's all right. It's tiring, of course. Banking has changed. There's just so much more pressure these days. And yours?” He really did sound as if he wanted to know.
She told him about the Polish girl, Ania, and the new assistant, Hilary Hickey About the two cheerful nurses, the physiotherapist, Lavender, the dietitian, and Tim, the security man. She even told him about the dreaded administrator Frank and Peter Barry the pharmacist. And yes, he did seem interested.
Suppose he hadn't met this terrible girl Cinta. Could they possibly have had a normal sort of life together? She tried to get the thought out of her head. It wasn't going to happen. And anyway, there had been others before Cinta and there would be more after her.
He asked her questions about the people she described. Questions that showed he was paying attention. She remembered that about him. It had been easy to discuss her work with him. Alan was a good listener. She had missed him when she had to go it alone through the humiliation of being passed over for the job. She refilled his coffee cup.
“You might meet someone in this new job,” he said softly.
“I must have met a hundred people this week.” She sighed.
“No, I meant meet someone. You know, I meant get together with someone.” He was smiling enthusiastically. Wishing her well in the great big frightening world of relationships. She looked at him in amazement. Sometimes he could be impossibly insensitive and thick.
“I don't think we should spend any time wandering around that remote possibility. It's nice of you to wish me well, but actually I find it unbearably patronizing.”
“Patronizing? Me to you? You have to be joking! Clara, you've always been the brainy one. You know that.”
“Leave it, Alan. Next thing, you'll be saying you married me for my fine mind!”
“I did in many ways, but also because you were and are one of the loveliest women in the world.” He leaned over and stroked her cheek. The sheer unexpectedness of it made her flinch.
“Alan, please.”
“Now don't tell me that you don't feel something for me. You're just lovely, Clara. Your hair is so fresh and shiny. You smell like a flower. Come here to me. Let me hold you.”
Because she was so startled, Clara didn't fight him off as quickly as she might have, and there he was, holding her face in his hands and kissing her before she could escape his grasp.
“Are you mad?” she gasped. “It's been five years.”
“Since you threw me out, but I never wanted to go. I never went in my heart.”
“Are you telling me that Cinta has thrown you out too?” She was looking at him in disbelief.
“Not at all, but she has nothing to do with this. With us.”
“There is no us, Alan. Get off me.” She struggled, but he held her all the more firmly.
“This reminds me very much of the old days, Clara,” he said into her ear.
She finally got away from him and ran across the kitchen, putting a chair between them.
“What do you mean nothing to do with Cinta? You live with her. She's having your baby, for God's sake. You're here to ask me again for a divorce so that you can marry her.” Her eyes were blazing with rage. “What are you up to?”
“I'm trying to get you to relax. You're so tense and strung out. Why can't you unwind and let me make you happy like I used to? For old times’ sake.”
He smiled at her, handsome Alan, who was always used to getting his own way. He hadn't changed. Alan, who was already as faithless to Cinta as he had been to her. Suddenly, like a focus in binoculars, everything became clear. This was a man worth spending not one more minute thinking about, second-guessing or trying to understand.
“Right,” Clara said briskly. “It worked. You can go home and tell little Cinta that she has the divorce and the prize of you as a husband. And that you did it as you usually do, by suggesting that you screw me.”
“That's not the way I'd actually describe it,” he began to bluster.
“That's the only way it can be described and will be described.”
“You're not going to say anything to the girls.” He was frightened.
“Adi and Linda will be only slightly more embarrassed by the news than they already are by you having a child with a girl who is the same age as they are.”
“Please, Clara …”
“Go, Alan. Go now.”
“You're just locking yourself away. You're still a fine-looking woman …”
“Go while you are still able to walk.”
Clara made a gesture with the chair as if she were going to use it as a weapon. He backed out the door and was gone. She didn't feel outraged or insulted. She didn't even feel patronized anymore. She felt empty and foolish and ashamed that she had spent any small moment holding on to this worthless man for whatever reason.
Tomorrow she would start the divorce process.
What her mother, her daughters, her good friend Dervla and her new assistant, Hilary, had not been able to make her do, Alan had done himself. By his clumsy attempt to make love to her, by his casual assumption that she would welcome it, he had actually achieved what he wanted—a divorce. Or maybe didn't want. But she would never know or care. She had more important things to think about. And for the first time since she had embarked on this new job, Clara felt it was in fact the most important part of her life.
She would put Alan totally out of her mind and think instead about what lay ahead tomorrow. She would be meeting the new doctor and welcoming him to the clinic. He seemed a very nice young man—good CV, red hair, a calm manner—everything, in fact, that you need for heart patients. His name was Declan Carroll, and Clara had a feeling that he was going to be very good.
Chapter Two
It was useless trying to tell his mother that it was a run-of-the-mill posting in the heart clinic. Molly Carroll was telling everyone that her son had a huge new job as a head cardiologist. Declan gave up trying to change her take on it all. Anyway her friends and family wanted to think that he was a boy genius. It would be downbeat, pedantic and tedious to explain that as part of his training in becoming a GP he would need to do a stint in cardiology.
He had already done the six months in an accident and emergency department, and the same in a children's hospital, and when this heart clinic was over he would do a further six months in geriatrics. Only then would he be considered experienced enough to join a general practice.
He never knew whether his father understood the system. Paddy Carroll was a quiet man who went to work in the meat department of a supermarket, who had his pint every evening and his three pints on a Saturday. He always said it was a miracle that young Declan had done so well. “Your mother must have slept with a brainbox for us to get you,” he'd say admiringly.
Declan hated it. He wished his father wouldn't put himself down so much. It would have made him much happier if his father had realized that Declan had got so far simply because he had worked so hard.
Molly was cooking a breakfast that would kill an ox. “You never know when you might get to eat again, Declan,” she fussed. “They'll all be consulting you all day and asking your opinion.”
“Or showing me the ropes and telling me what to do,” Declan said, looking dismayed at the huge plate of food in front of him.
Paddy Carroll looked meaningfully at Dimples, the big sleeping dog. “You won't forget to walk that dog before you head off to work, Declan,” he said.
Declan got the message. He wasn't to upset his mother by refusing the monstrous breakfast, but Dimples would make short work of the sausages and black pudding. His mother came round to give him a hug before she rushed off to open up the launderette.
“I'm so proud of you, I could burst!” she said.
“Aw, Mam, sure it's all down to you and Dad, doin
g overtime and saving for me.”
“I wish I could tell everyone who comes in today that my boy is starting work as a heart specialist,” she said, her face glowing with happiness.
Declan Carroll knew that she would tell everybody who came in. She might even show them all a photograph of his graduation— Declan in full gear, his freckles and ginger hair making him look like an impostor, he always thought. There were enlargements of this picture in three rooms of their little house in St. Jarlaths Crescent.
Dimples, who was partly Labrador and partly something unspecified, was delighted with the unexpected breakfast. It was fanciful, but Declan thought that even the dog was proud of him this morning. Just as well that none of them knew how anxious he felt about his first day as a new boy. He must be there in good time. It would be a very bad beginning to arrive late. He patted the overfed dog on the head and got on his bicycle to head off for the heart clinic. As he rode his bike through the busy early-morning traffic, he wished there had been someone just leaving the post, someone who could have marked his card. But this was a new outfit. He would be their first houseman, registrar, dogsbody. Or, as his mother was telling everyone already—senior cardiologist.
• • •
Declan locked his bicycle outside the clinic. He had been asked to be there at nine-thirty, but he was half an hour early. That rather cool, nicely groomed woman, Clara Casey, had shown him around when he came to discuss the position. It was open plan. She had stressed no hiding away in offices. He would have a desk, of course, and a filing cabinet, but the emphasis would be on getting the patients to manage their own conditions and to have everyone on the team involved.
She was good, Dr. Casey. He had heard her spoken of as a possible successor for the big cardiology job in the hospital earlier this year, but it hadn't happened. Maybe she didn't want it. One thing she certainly had going for her: she wasn't afraid of the hospital authorities. That would be a great asset, Declan thought. He wondered would he himself ever be courageous like that. Probably not. He was cautious by nature, and his parents were so humble it made him even more afraid of putting a foot wrong. He remembered when he was back in accident and emergency and a young motorcyclist had literally died in his arms. When he got home, still trembling, he was telling his mother and father about it.
“They can't blame you for that, Declan,” Molly had said firmly.
“There's no one can point the finger at you, son.” Paddy was bursting with loyalty.
Neither of them seemed to understand that he didn't remotely think himself responsible for the death of a drunken joy rider. He just wanted some sympathy for holding a nineteen-year-old as he breathed his last breath. He wanted them to grip his arm and say, “You are a fine fellow, Declan, and you'll make a great doctor one day” But instead they had worried in case he was somehow at fault. It was hard to be courageous and gutsy when all you had known at home was fear that the supermarket might close its butchery department and Dad would be unemployed or the launderette might want someone younger and prettier than his mam.
But Declan was a good listener. He would soon get the measure of this new place.
He hoped that he wasn't too early. It might look too eager, too anxious. But the girl who opened the door seemed delighted to see him.
“I am Ania. I'm just getting your name label ready. You can tell me how you like it.” She had a big, broad smile and a foreign accent.
“I suppose just my name,” he said, surprised.
“But I am about to write it. Would you like Celtic lettering or just bold print?”
“Are you the clinic calligrapher?” he asked.
“Please?”
“Sorry. Are you a writing expert?”
“No, but Clara liked the badge that I did for myself and she suggested I do one for everyone. She said they looked nicer than the boring ones the hospital does, which are too small for older people to read anyway. She got me these special pens for thick and thin strokes.”
“I'm sure the hospital loved that,” Declan said.
“No, they did not, but Clara doesn't mind.” Ania seemed very proud.
“Right. I'd love Celtic lettering, please, Ania.”
“Right. I'll do it now, and by the time the others come in you can have it on your chest. They'll know who you are.”
She seemed to be happy and enjoying her work. He had no idea if she was a secretary, a nurse or a cleaner. It was a good sign that she didn't see any need to explain. It meant that she was part of a team. Declan relaxed and watched her confident strokes as she drew out his name. DR. DECLAN CARROLL. His mother would just love it; maybe he could put it on the photocopier and give it to her.
And one by one, the rest of the team came in.
Lavender, the dietitian, who congratulated Declan on choosing to be a GP. Too many young men now wanted a showy career as a consultant. Fine lot of help that was to ordinary people, who, like Kitty Reilly, needed a good doctor.
Barbara, a nice, lively nurse, who said that this clinic was a great place. It had only been up and running for two weeks and yet you felt at the end of the day that you had done some good, which was more than a lot of people must feel, if you were to judge by their faces. Barbara said that she started each week with three resolutions: this week she was going to lose four pounds weight, she was going to frighten this barking patient Kitty Reilly into learning the names of her tablets and she was going to a charity do at a very smart golf club, because she and her friend Fiona had heard there were going to be some unmercifully gorgeous men at it.
Hilary Hickey, who said she was Claras assistant, welcomed him and said he would be very happy here. There was a kind of magic about seeing people who thought they were finished and for the high jump when they had heart attacks come round to realizing they could cope with it after all.
There was a security man called Tim, who said he only came in for a short time each day, mainly to see that things were functioning all right. He wanted to check if Declan would have any drugs in his filing cabinet, because if so there would have to be extra precautions and lists and locks. Declan said he thought it was highly unlikely. He might prescribe drugs, but people would go to the pharmacy to collect them.
He met Johnny, the physiotherapist, who told him that he had high hopes for this place. That woman Clara had more nerve than most. There was absolutely no money for machinery but she had gone and ordered it all. Johnny had been almost afraid to unwrap it, so quickly did he think that bollocks Frank what's-his-name in administration would repossess it. But no. The cunning Clara had given a press conference saying that it was all state-of-the-art equipment and thanking the hospital publicly for its great sense of commitment. Frank, the bollocks, now had no way out.
Declan noted that they all called the director of the clinic by her first name. That was certainly different from his last posting, where people had been Mr. this and Dr. that and a huge amount of pecking order and distinction was the norm.
“How about the patients?” he asked Hilary. “Do we call them by first names too?”
“We ask them how they like to be addressed. Clara says they all want to be on first-name terms but often their children get sniffy and think we are being too familiar.” It made a lot of sense to Declan.
At that moment Clara came in, tall, dark and very well groomed. The first thing he noticed about her was that she took care of herself. The second was her smile. She made him feel that he was the one person in the world that she had been looking forward to seeing.
“Declan Carroll. Welcome. Welcome. I'm so sorry I wasn't here to greet you. I had a meeting with some Neanderthals up in the hospital. You have to go to these meetings or they'll decide something ludicrous behind your back. Anyway, I'm here now. Have you met everybody?”
“Oh, yes, yes indeed.”
“And you're ready to start?”
“Yes, absolutely.” He wondered would he ever have the confidence and polish of this shiny woman.
“Good. O
ff we go.” And she turned to the left, where there were three treatment cubicles. Each one was brightly lit, with cheerful curtains separating each area and giving some privacy. There were reclining chairs that turned into beds should the doctor need to have the patient lie down. They stopped at the first one, where an elderly woman peered at them suspiciously.
“This is Dr. Declan Carroll, Kitty. And Declan, this is Mrs. Kitty Reilly You'll see her chart here. She's in fine shape and needs to come in to see us every three weeks. Declan will listen to your heart and breathing, Kitty. I'll leave you in his hands.”
“What happened to the other doctor, the fellow who was here last time?”
“That was Sulong. He was only filling in until we got Declan,” Clara explained.
“Was he a qualified doctor? Did he train properly out where he came from?”
“Yes, indeed, he was very highly qualified in Malaysia. But he was just helping until Declan was able to come to us.”
“How are you, Mrs. Reilly, or will I call you Kitty? Tell me which you prefer.” He felt rather than saw the look of approval from Clara.
“Well, since you are going to be feeling my vest and everything I think you should call me Kitty,” she said almost grudgingly.
“Yes, Kitty, and what medication are you on?”
“Lord, you're as bad as that bossy nurse Barbara. She's always asking me do I know which tablet this is and which that is. I suppose I'm on whatever this place put me on.”
“It's useful for you to know what you're taking, Kitty.” Declan had a persuasive smile.
“I don't see why.” Kitty Reilly's face showed someone looking forward to a lengthy argument. “That's the clinic's job, isn't it? Mine is just to take them.”
“Ah, yes, but suppose you were feeling short of breath and rang us up. We might say take a diuretic, a water pill, you know, but it wouldn't be any use if you didn't know which was which.”
Kitty's scowl had lessened a little. “Learning the tablets is actually for me, then?”
