by Allan, Gilli
If Dom didn’t turn up to the next class, the day of reckoning might be postponed, but there would ultimately be no backtracking from the decision he’d made. There was nothing for it. The next time he saw him, he was going to make a suggestion. He almost hoped it would be refused; it was likely to radically change his own life, possibly for the worse. But if the suggestion were accepted, it offered the chance to improve Dom’s.
Chapter Ten - Dory
‘The architecture’s a bit modern suburban. But it’ll do while you look for somewhere more suitable to buy.’ Fran, who’d made the remark more as a statement than a discussion point, lived in an old, stone-built rectory and Dory knew she had something similar in mind, if on a smaller scale, for her. They stood side by side in her tiny kitchen. Its window looked out over well tended canal-side gardens, the resurfaced towpath, and beyond its neatly mown banks, to the canal itself. The still water was a mirror to the blue and white sky, and the trees on the far side, now on the turn to the coppers, rusts, and golds of autumn.
‘If a place like this comes up for sale, clean, bright, all mod cons … maybe a bit bigger … I’d be quite happy,’ Dory said.
‘Don’t you find it a bit bland? You could be anywhere in the country. And wouldn’t you like a garden? Even the houses in this estate have gardens no bigger than postage stamps!’
‘Why do I want a big garden, Fran? We only had a balcony in Marylebone.’
‘Even if you’re not a gardener, surely you’d enjoy some green space around you, somewhere you can breathe?’
‘In an ideal world, but I’m trying to be practical and sensible. This place is fine, thank you for finding it for me. It probably says something about my taste, but I like the way they’ve done the redevelopment.’ Dory turned away from the sink, drying her hands. ‘The canal’s been transformed from a wilderness to a real amenity.’
‘Wilderness has a lot going for it.’
‘Be realistic … they wouldn’t have done the conversion and all the new building without tidying everything up. It’s very attractive with the walkways and courtyards. If I want wilderness I need only walk a mile or two down the towpath.’
‘You’ll have to watch out for dog mess,’ Fran warned. ‘Look … you don’t notice all the changes round here in the same way they impact on me. I’ve watched them chipping away at every scrap of green around town. And this housing estate, it all looks so pristine, so new.’
‘Well, it is new, what do you expect? Anyway, there’s development and development. On a site like this, an empty mill standing amongst acres of dereliction, it’s an improvement.’
‘They could have tried a bit harder to blend in.’
‘You’d have preferred that faux vernacular style, reconstituted yellow stone bricks, bow windows, and repro carriage lamps outside each front door?’
‘I’d have preferred them to leave it alone in the first place.’
‘But, given the need for housing …?’
‘It’s not need, it’s greed. There’re huge profits to be made. You know what happens … even in a lovely unspoilt village like mine?’ Fran was twisting the tea towel as she spoke. ‘That Edwardian place on Vetch Lane was sold eighteen months ago. And guess what, the house was back on the market within weeks, minus its big garden. And despite the government claiming they’d reverse the brown field site legislation as it applied to gardens, an estate is going to be built on it!’ Fran bit her lip and looked out of the window again. ‘And what about the poor old mill? It’s been refurbished to within an inch of its life! I’d defy anyone to guess it was two hundred years old, particularly with that out-of-character excrescence plonked on the top.’
Dory followed her sister’s gaze. The mill had been converted into flats; the glass and steel structure on top had been added to create a so-called penthouse apartment.
‘I agree with you about the mill, Fran. It is OTT. But what surprises me is why you found this place for me if you hate it so much?’
‘Of course I don’t hate it, and you’re only renting. You needed somewhere quickly, to use as a base.’
‘And I think it’s perfect, Fran. Until I find a place to buy I’ll be very happy living in this little flat, with the canal to look out on. I’m lucky, some people have no choice about the desperate conditions they live in. Cheek by jowl with the North Circular; a tower block on a sink estate …?’
‘Not very likely you’d end up somewhere like that.’ A defensive note had crept into Fran’s voice. ‘So, what specifications have you given the estate agents?’
‘Let me catch my breath.’ Suddenly, Dory wanted to deflect her sister. Despite everything she’d just said, the question was one she’d no answer for. What did she want? An attractive flat in an attractive location like this one, even if it was a bit bland, should suit her down to the ground. Why was she still agonising? When and if she finally made up her mind that the move from London was permanent, why would she want anything bigger? She was on her own. There was no prospect on the horizon of finding a mate, let alone having a baby, as Fran had so bizarrely suggested. Even if she was still theoretically capable of procreating, bringing a child into the world had to be based on sounder foundations than one’s ability to simply do so, hadn’t it? Feelings of broodiness would be a start. Babies and partners firmly out of the picture, what kind of future did she envisage for herself?
The initial move back had been instinctive, impelled by the desire for a change of scene. Fran had found this flat for her at Stowbridge Gardens, and it had been let furnished. Though fitted with brand new appliances, the kitchen was short on crockery, cutlery, and utensils. Throughout the rest of the accommodation the furnishings were minimal but she’d been able to embellish her surroundings with the kilims, cushions, and wall hangings she’d brought with her. Her furniture, what little she’d demanded out of the property split, was in storage.
‘I’ve not registered with any estate agents yet.’
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘So far I’ve only looked on the internet.’ Then, attempting to answer her own internal questions more than her sister’s, she added, ‘What I want most of all is to be truly independent. So, ideally, a house that would double as business premises; big enough to give me adequate living space but with adaptable accommodation.’
‘In the meantime, while you’re waiting for the TARDIS to land, you’re going to need some more crockery and cutlery. I couldn’t put up with being so ill-equipped for two days, let alone two months. How’ve you managed to cope?’
Maybe it was because she still felt so undecided, Dory wondered, as her sister hustled her out of the front door and down the external stairs.
‘What do you think of the car?’ Fran asked.
‘Um …’ Dory breathed in the scent of leather. ‘New, is it?’
‘For God’s sake, sis, you’re hopeless. I told you I was getting a new Mini Cooper. OK, forget it, what kind of business are you planning?’
‘I’ve yet to decide. Realistically, once I’ve made up my mind, I suppose I could rent premises. A flat or a small modern house is probably all I need live in.’
‘Why are you so fixated on something modern?’
Why was she? Was it an assertion of her independence, a small rebellion against her sister’s view of what she should want?
‘I don’t need the hassle of the kind of cottage you think I should buy, however quaint and charming. Admit it, there are always more problems with old property – mice, damp, ivy growing through the stonework …’
‘You’ve no soul!’
‘Not something I worry about, I’m just grateful that while I think about what I intend to do with the rest of my life, I’ve a job, even if it is only part-time, and some money.’ She clasped her hands and looked up, as if only the car roof intervened between her and heaven. ‘Thank you, God, thank you, Mum … and thank you, Malcolm.’ Fran had started the car and moved away. ‘In fact, I’ve a fancy for doing something creative’
‘Dried flowers, jam making? This is me we’re talking about – am I particularly renowned for my mother earth tendencies?’
‘You did say something creative. And you never know until you try.’ Fran turned the car out of Stowbridge Gardens and onto the main road. ‘You know, there’s a cottage industry round here just from collecting elderflowers to make into soft drinks. You could collect sloes. There are plenty of blackthorns.’
‘Fran, I’m getting this soft-focus vision of a woman in a long frock and broad-brimmed hat, a trug over her arm, drifting through sun-drenched meadows of poppies and cornflowers! Is that how you see me?’
Her sister laughed. ‘You’ll not find sloes in meadows in high summer. Blackthorns are hedgerow trees. Sloes aren’t ready for picking till autumn. You’d be better off with a sack, stout gardening gloves, and stepladders!’
‘Whatever. I’m not about to start making homemade wine!’
‘You make gin with sloes.’
‘Gin or jam … it’s not the kind of creative I’m talking about. But that’s the dilemma. It’s not enough to want to be independent and forge something of your own. It’s not even enough to identify a need and fill it. To create a successful business it has to be based on your talents or abilities …’ She frowned and then let out her breath on a sigh. ‘I suppose the obvious thing for me would be to set up a private clinic.’
‘What? A VD clinic?’ Fran blurted, apparently aghast.
‘VD? Catch up!’
‘Oh … STI, then. But is there a need in this area?’
‘You are joking? Or do you think you’re all too refined round here? Infection isn’t confined to the under-class. You should see how many come through our doors … officially called the Sexual Health Department, by the way.’
‘But you couldn’t set up on your own, in a private house, surely?’
‘Running a clinic from our own home was exactly what we were doing in Marylebone.’ It had all been Malcolm’s idea. It was a perfect fit with their joint expertise, he’d assured her, and was bound to be a money-spinner. Against her misgivings – at the time she’d begun to consider specialising in forensic pathology – he’d persuaded her. Since she’d moved back here, her part-time job at the hospital was an equally perfect fill-in. But for the future …?
‘It had been used as a doctor’s premises before you bought it!’ Fran’s blatant horror at the idea made Dory keener to argue her point.
‘By and large, this is an affluent part of the country. People can afford a personal, appointment-only service, one that gives the patient the complete privacy the NHS can’t,’ she said. ‘For that reason alone I’m sure there’s a need. In London, we could hardly keep up with the demand. Financially, we were doing extremely well. Malcolm still is, even though he had to divvy up the assets to give me my share. He certainly wasn’t a happy bunny about having to extend the mortgage …’
Dory remembered one of their last conversations before she’d left the capital. He’d stopped short of calling her a thief – indeed, how could he have justified it? – but his manner was cool to the point of hostility. In Dory’s eyes the eventual outcome had been fair. If she’d wanted to prolong the argument, she could have dug her heels in. He’d kept much of the household contents, which they’d accrued together and, owing to her ill health in the last few years before the separation, her share of the business had been assessed at less than half.
Of course, he hadn’t wanted her to have anything. He didn’t see himself as wholly culpable for the break-up of their relationship. To be obliged to hand over anything, let alone a third of the value of the business – a business he regarded as his own intellectual property – as well as a sizeable share of the value of the bricks and mortar of the home, to a woman he no longer even liked, had been hard. He’d accepted the eventual compromise in order to gain her compliance for a speedy, uncontested separation, but saw no reason to hide how bitterly he resented it.
‘Tough!’ Dory added. ‘He’ll make it back soon enough … him and the divine Gabriella.’
‘The nurse he was shagging?’
‘Still is. I’m expecting an announcement about wedding bells any day.’ Thinking of the girl, nearly ten years her junior, who’d turned Malcolm’s head, redirected Dory’s thoughts. ‘I currently work with some super nurses, all highly qualified in G.U.
Meds.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘At the clinic. Genitourinary medicine. There are always dissatisfied grumblings about being over-stretched and underpaid. I’m sure I could take one or two with me if I set up on my own.’
‘It’s not exactly making a fresh start. You’re always saying how tired and boggled you get, squinting down a microscope all day.’ The car slowed, stopping behind a queue of traffic. ‘You don’t want to do that, do you?’
Good question. Did she really want to tie herself into doing the same thing for the rest of her working life? Of course not. Turning her head, she found herself looking out at the old stone wall and small arched windows of a house that almost flanked the pavement. Evidence like this of the town’s history could still be detected everywhere. Though she’d made the argument for redevelopment earlier, it was a pleasure to see how doggedly the past survived, existing hugger-mugger with tarmac, metal, and concrete. The last thing she wanted was to see old buildings like this completely submerged beneath modern improvements, or torn down in the cause of progress. Being back had felt like a break in the routine of her life, an extended holiday. Living here permanently was something else. Wasn’t she a metropolitan girl at heart these days?
‘But if I can’t think of something I want to do then I have to do something I’m equipped to do,’ she said, admitting to herself that anything else was probably a pipe dream. ‘It might not be the most romantic business imaginable, but it’s probably the most practical option. I could initially do the screening tests that we do at the hospital, plus the HIV DUO test … which we don’t currently offer … which can produce a fast result. If I’m initially successful, I could soon invest in a more sophisticated set up to do PCR testing.’
As their car reached the head of the queue at the roundabout, Fran flicked on her indicator to turn right. ‘PCR?’ she queried, when the manoeuvre was complete and they were on the short stretch of bypass.
‘Polymerase chain reaction,’ Dory said. ‘Bit complicated, but basically it tests for the presence of HIV on the genetic level. It can confirm the presence of an infection from a very recent exposure to the virus. The other tests, even the DUO, leave a window of uncertainty.’ From being just an idle thought, Dory began to see it as the obvious and practical solution. All her life she’d had other people telling her what she should or shouldn’t do. Wasn’t it time to be decisive, to dismiss her nebulous doubts and really commit to something she and she alone had decided upon? ‘Do you want me to explain?’
‘Get over!’ Fran shouted at a motorist who seemed intent on preventing her from overtaking. ‘No. I’ll take your word for it.’
‘If I got a doctor on board,’ Dory continued, ‘I could provide the full service. I’d eventually be able to stop being hands-on and just do the admin.’
‘It may be technically feasible as a business venture, but you’ve got to get yourself known, haven’t you? You’ve got to get the customers ȃ would they be customers or patients? – through the door. I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘The internet would be the first step. I’d build a website, then make sure I had plenty of links from other related sites. And include lots of keywords for search engines to pick up.’
‘You’re such a computer whiz.’
‘I had to be up to speed for the
business. Malcolm wasn’t particularly interested, and it was something I enjoyed. I designed our website, set up a database, and separate email addresses for queries and appointments and so on. People are more comfortable emailing than speaking on the phone.’
‘I think I become a bit dyslexic when trying to do anything more complex than sending emails and a bit of online shopping. Mel signed me up to Facebook but I’ve no idea what to do with it. There’s probably a name for my condition – compulexia!’
‘Like anything else, it’s practice and not being afraid of it. An internet presence would be the first step to promote the business, but I’d do conventional advertising too and handouts for doctors’ surgeries and hospital outpatients. The other thing I could do is press releases; maybe find a few tame journalists to write features in the local rag. There’s loads of ways of getting yourself noticed.’
‘It’s the kind of notice I’d rather not have. Fancy being known by all and sundry as the local Clap lady!’
Dory laughed. After a moment or two of silent driving, Fran turned the car into the NCP entrance and began the upward spiral to find a parking space.
‘There is one thing I’ve managed to do on my own. Sign up to Friends Reunited,’ Fran said as she pulled up. ‘I was hoping to trace some old college friends. But no luck so far. I’ve been amazed how few names I recognise … people apparently at college the same time as me. Those I’d hoped to find haven’t registered. It’s been quite disappointing. Perhaps there are other avenues.’
Dory was searching for her purse. ‘I’ve plenty of change, I’ll get the ticket.’
‘I wish you’d agreed to go to the shopping mall,’ Fran said as they made their way down from the third floor of the car park. ‘We could have made a day of it. There’s John Lewis, M&S, IKEA. You’re not going to find much in this one-horse town. The only place that sells anything half decent is a specialist kitchen shop that’s twice the price of the out-of-town stores.’
