by Davis Bunn
A voice down the lane called out, “Don’t bother with Mr. Blackstone, Lavinia dear.”
The big-boned woman heeled about and cried, “Hardy, thank goodness. You of all people must talk some sense—”
“I said don’t bother.” The real estate agent climbed the stairs and nodded a languid greeting to the gathering. “Afternoon, all.”
Brian noticed the chill that entered Arthur Wainwright’s voice. “Finally come to see to our electrical problems, Mr. Seade?”
Hardy Seade cast an indifferent glance toward the old man, but directed his words to the woman. “Our dear Mr. Blackstone will only possess this property for another few days. Isn’t that so, sir?” When Brian did not respond, the realtor continued, “The estate is to be auctioned next Wednesday. And a buyer has already come forward with a most impressive bid. So I regret Mr. Blackstone will not be around long enough to weigh in on the issue of the church bells.”
Brian’s disappointment over the coming loss and his dislike of the man smirking at him fought for position. Then an idea struck, one powerful enough to make Brian smile. He stepped inside and said, “I’ll be right back.”
He raced up the stairs as swiftly as his weakened legs would permit, and returned to find the same tableau. Clearly a few more words had been exchanged, for all the faces smoldered. Brian held Heather’s prize with both arms and said to the vicar, “I don’t have any money for your cause, but you can have this if you think it would help.”
The sun chose that moment to emerge from behind a lonely cloud, and splashed golden and generous upon the front terrace. The miniature manor Brian held was suddenly no longer just a dollhouse. The tiny windows and perfectly proportioned rooms shone with a brilliant luster, as though all the diminutive chandeliers had suddenly come alight.
“How absolutely marvelous!” Arthur bent over for a closer inspection. “I say, it appears to be an exact replica of Castle Keep.”
The vicar’s eyes had gone all round with astonishment. “Mr. Blackstone, really, this is too generous.”
“Call me Brian. And no, it’s not.”
The woman spluttered, “You can’t possibly be serious!”
Arthur offered, “We could raffle it off. A pound a ticket.”
The vicar nodded vigorous agreement. “We’ll clear out the church charity’s shop window and put this inside with a great sign. ‘Win a piece of village heritage and save the church bells.’ Marvelous, I can’t thank you enough.”
The real estate agent shouldered his way closer. Hardy Seade was no longer smiling. “I’ll give you a thousand pounds for it.”
Arthur chortled, “Really, what on earth would you want with a dollhouse at your age?”
“It’s for my niece.” The words came out clipped with anger.
“I happen to know for a fact,” Arthur countered, “that you are an only child.”
Rage rose from his reddened cheeks to fill Seade’s gaze. “A thousand pounds, Mr. Blackstone. You and I both know it’s not worth half that.”
Brian handed the dollhouse to the vicar. “It’s not mine to sell.”
The agent shot Brian a venomous look. “The offer stands,Vicar. A thousand pounds for the model.”
“Hardy!” Lavinia shrilled. “You can’t possibly mean to give money to that man and his demented cause!”
“Oh, do be quiet,” Hardy snapped. “A thousand pounds cash,Vicar. Here and now.”
“That’s most generous of you, Mr. Seade, I’m sure.” Trevor carried his dollhouse and his smile down the broad front stairs. “And I’ll be delighted to accept any donation you care to give us, just as soon as our raffle tickets are printed up.”
Hardy Seade almost steamed with rage as he turned back to Brian and snarled, “I’ll have a court injunction placed against you this very afternoon. You’ll not carry a single stick of firewood from this place.”
“Oh, I very much doubt it will be as simple as all that.” Arthur held to the same cheery tone as the vicar’s. “I went by the council offices this morning, and I happen to know that the auction refers to the house and grounds. No mention was made of the furnishings.”
“We’ll see about that.” Hardy Seade thumped down the stairs. “Come along, Lavinia.”
Arthur waited until they had carried their mutterings down the line of elms to turn and pat Brian on the shoulder and say, “That was a most generous act.”
“They sure make a pair,” Brian observed.
“Yes, Lavinia Winniskill and Hardy Seade are certainly flies in the marmalade. And I must say, seeing their faces when you offered the vicar your little prize, why, it was better than a day at the races.” The old man turned his back on the angry couple. “You really must come down for a spot of dinner tonight.”
“Thanks, but I don’t want—”
“Now, now, none of that. You’ll find Gladys is a marvelous cook.”
Eight
THE DAY CLEARED WITH SUCH A GRADUAL TRANSITION THAT Cecilia really did not notice it until the sky had bloomed to full and open blue. She began her Thursday afternoon at the village wards. That was a fancy name for a converted fifteenth-century cottage. There were several of these ancient structures about Knightsbridge, given to the town at some earlier point because the landowner couldn’t bear to tear down a house that had stood since the days of good Queen Bess. Now they were worth a fortune, and the heirs were constantly trying to wrest them back.
The cottage stood down a narrow walk connecting the market square to the village green. The front door opened straight into the nurse’s station, essentially a beamed front parlor where the duty nurse sat and quietly knitted through the night. Each of the wards held six beds, but rarely were more than three or four of them in use. Today the women’s ward held a recent stroke victim and a mother in her late thirties being tested for a new medication. The male ward held one patient, a highly educated man and binge drinker. Once every three or four months Robert would be found in Cork Talk, the local wine bar, either propping up one corner or slumped on the floor.
Cecilia found the patient awake and relatively clear-eyed, and began the lecture that had become standard fare between them. “You have what we call multisystem failure. Because of this drinking, your liver isn’t functioning properly. As a result, your skin is breaking down. This is the worst case of eczema I’ve ever seen.”
“You know why it is I insist on your treating me,” he drawled. “Your lithe tongue and your winsome walk. I’ve always found the white doctor’s robe to be most evocative.”
“Speaking of walking, let me see you cross to the door and back.”
He remained where he was. “I’d rather not.”
“Feet bothering you again?”
“Of course they are. It’s part of the burden one bears for being old.”
“False. It comes from a lifetime of bad habits, as you well know.”
She studied the man and let some of her concern show. “Why do you do this to yourself? You have so much to offer.”
Robert sensed the change, and his own tone grew hollow. “Offer to whom, my dear? There is no one who finds the least bit of good in this dried-up sack of flesh.”
Cecilia lowered herself to the edge of the bed. “Have you ever spoken with the vicar?”
“The vicar is but a man. A good man, but a man nonetheless.” His wit sliced through her question like a knife through butter. “What you intend to ask is, have I ever spoken with God. And the answer is, what would God want with a poor fool like myself?”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps what I fear is the responsibility of discovering that someone might care for me after all.” His expression turned sadder still. “The resulting guilt would surely kill me stone dead.”
She completed her examination and departed, carrying with her all the words she wished she had known how to say.
Thursday afternoons had two hours set aside for her home visits, and there were seven names on her l
ist. Nothing in the National Health Service charter required doctors to make house calls except in an emergency. But many village doctors did, and this was one of the reasons she had decided to practice in England. She wanted to see her patients as people. She wanted to know where and how they lived. She wanted to find the root causes of illness and treat those as well as the symptoms. It was an unreasonable hope, for there was never time to visit anyone save the long-term ill. But the goal remained with her still.
Between patients she found her mind returning to her conversation with Robert and the challenge their words had contained. Not for Robert, but rather for herself. While in medical school, a fellow student—a person of far stronger faith—had once described Cecilia as a part-time believer. He had said that people like Cecilia were the hardest to reach, for they were content with acknowledging God and holding Him ever at arm’s length. At the time Cecilia had laughed it off, but this walk through the sunlit December afternoon left her feeling both exposed and convicted. The unanswered questions about little Tommy Townsend—and the need to offer something to his mother—sharpened her sense of failure.
When she returned to the clinic, Maureen was up and moving before Cecilia made it through the door. “You’ll be coming with me right this instant.”
Cecilia caught sight of a waiting room filled with smiles before the other woman wheeled her about and dragged her back onto the street. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing and everything. I thought I would positively burst before you got back.” She hustled Cecilia down the cobblestone way leading to the market square. “I can scarcely believe it, even after a dozen people have stopped in to tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“We’re almost there. You’ll see it for yourself.” As they entered the market square, Maureen took a sharp left-hand turn and halted at the outskirts of a large chattering crowd. “Make way for the doctor, please.”
A tiny space opened. Cecilia readied herself for the victim of an accident or a heart attack, though the surrounding smiles and the chatter left her utterly confused. The final grouping by the charity window was all made up of young girls with their noses pressed hard against the pane. Maureen touched the shoulders of two youngsters and chided, “Let the doctor have a look. That’s a dear.”
Reluctantly the girls made a space for them. As soon as Cecilia saw the center of their attention, she repeated what she had said that morning. “I want it!”
“Get in line, dearie,” said a voice from behind them. “So does half the town.”
A little girl to her left said, “It has little sofas and beds and curtains and everything.”
Her neighbor added, “The front parlors have five paintings on the walls. Five. I counted them myself.”
The normally cluttered charity window had been cleared of everything save the manor dollhouse. A large banner had been hung overhead that read, “Donated to the Church Bell Campaign by Mr. Brian Blackstone, Esquire. Raffle tickets, one pound.”
“I suppose the man must have a heart after all,” Maureen said. “Whoever would have thought. Perhaps he keeps it in his back pocket, just so it doesn’t get overused.”
One of the children said, “I wonder how they got all those things in there so neat and all.”
“The roof comes off,” Cecilia answered, pressing her face up close to dispel the glare. Inside the shop, the front display was ringed by yet another crowd of mothers and daughters.
Cecilia felt more than saw Maureen’s slow turning in her direction. “And just exactly how would we be knowing such a thing as that?”
“I saw him cleaning it up this morning.”
“Oh you did, did you. And where was this taking place?”
“Out by the river.” To her surprise, Cecilia felt her cheeks reddening and added, “I met him there by chance.”
“Oh. By chance, was it.”
“That’s right. I went out there to watch the sunrise, and he was sitting there cleaning it.” She realized she was the center of attention but could not help going on. “The top floor lifts off as well.”
This news was greeted by oohs from the little girls and a crossing of arms by Maureen. Cecilia added, “He found another letter from Heather Harding inside the front parlor.”
This brought a stir from the ladies as well. One of the women behind her said, “So it’s true then, the vicar finding a letter the old lady herself wrote and left for him?”
Another voice pressed, “What did it say, dear?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t read it until after I left.”
A child asked, “Did you help him carry it back inside?”
Another child elbowed the first and chided, “Letters don’t weigh anything, silly.”
“You’re the silly one. I meant the dollhouse, you git.”
Cecilia answered, “Brian said the house is light as a feather.”
“Oh,” Maureen purred. “Brian was saying that, was he.”
Cecilia turned from the window to find her assistant smiling at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” The eyes twinkled mischievously. “It’s a shame the bad ones get all the good packaging, isn’t it?”
It was Cecilia’s turn to cross her arms. “What are you talking about now?”
One of the ladies to her right offered,“I hear he’s ever so handsome.”
“Lean and mean,” Maureen said, her eyes still on Cecilia. “And dark as a little brown nutkin. Which is no surprise, seeing as how he’s been living in those far-flung places for ever so long.”
“Tall, dark, handsome, and rich to boot,” one of the other ladies said. “I suppose I could put up with a little meanness now and then.”
Cecilia glanced around, found smiles directed at her from young and old alike. “This is the silliest conversation I’ve ever heard.”
“Is it, now,” Maureen said.
“I don’t know about you, but I’ve got a waiting room full of patients.” As she started back down the way, there was nothing silly about the blush she carried with her, nor the chuckles and quiet comments she left in her wake.
Cecilia saw anywhere from fifteen to thirty patients in any full morning or afternoon at the practice. Some were old favorites, particularly the elderly and the lonely. She would ask them to come back every three months and there they were, as regular as clockwork. She would take their blood pressure, run down a quick checklist of questions, then sit back and let them talk a bit. Most were suffering from little more than the desperate solitude of old age. After almost two years in the village, she was coming to see this as one more illness she could treat, but never cure.
That afternoon there were four in a row, their complaints very similar, their attitudes utterly different. Two were bitter and morose and sullen with ancient rage—at their children, the day, their aches and pains, the hand life had dealt them. The third was a former bank director, too stodgy to ever admit to the feelings that hollowed his gaze and slackened his features. The fourth was sadly quiet and resigned. All seemed to expect answers from Cecilia, ones she did not have to offer. After the fourth had left, she sat for a long moment, her hand on the buzzer that would signal Maureen to send in the next patient. She stared at the sunlight splashed upon her window and wondered at how the entire world conspired that day to ask such questions of her.
To her relief, her next patient was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a success suit of dark blue with no-nonsense pumps and immaculate makeup. Cecilia breathed easier at the thought of finally having someone come in with a complaint she could treat.
The woman came immediately to the point. “I’ve recently moved to the area and started a new job. But I’m encountering difficulties in the workplace.”
Cecilia took out a new-patient form. “Where were you living before?”
“North London.” The woman hesitated. “You’re American.”
“That’s right.”
The woman
struggled for a moment with something internal, then said, “I’m sorry, I was expecting someone . . .”
“Older?” She smiled, and when the woman attempted to smile back, Cecilia continued, “You were saying that you’re having a health problem related to your new work.”
“No. Not exactly. That is . . .” The polished veneer was becoming frayed. “I have a problem entering the building.”
Cecilia set down her pen. “What sort of problem?”
“I can’t seem to find breath.” One hand rose to fiddle nervously with a strand of hair. “My heart rate goes right through the roof. My legs are as weak as water.”
“I see.” She settled back in her chair. Another patient with a non-medical crisis.
But the woman was not through. “I get so dizzy I have to lean on the wall. I break into a cold sweat.”
“I get the message,” Cecilia muttered to herself.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. What I meant was, this is not exactly a health issue.”
“But you can prescribe some pills, can’t you?” The tone turned desperate. “I have to have help.”
“There are pills, yes, but they only treat the symptoms.”
The woman’s voice rose a notch. “But it is precisely the symptoms that are driving me around the bend!”
“Yes, of course.” Cecilia forced her own voice to remain steady. “What I meant was, there might be some underlying cause that needs your attention.”
“Oh, piffle. I’ve been through a very hard time, which I am already fully aware of. I accepted a new job, which meant I had to leave London.” The woman had regained control of her voice, but not her hands. They danced from her lap to the arm of her chair to the ends of her hair. “Because of that I’ve had to break up with my boyfriend. I’m having trouble with my family over my decision, not that it’s any of your business. They want me to settle down, but I’ve spent my entire life dreaming of a chance like this. It’s just a spell, that’s all. A hard transition.”
