The Affair

by Hilary Boyd

  Devan just shrugged. ‘He’s an arse, is what he is,’ he said. ‘We shouldn’t even be here.’ He bent awkwardly to set his empty glass down against the wall on the strip of parquet floor not hidden by the vintage Turkish rug – where, no doubt, it would be knocked over and broken. She immediately picked it up, then felt his hand in the small of her back, beginning to guide her away.

  The large sitting room was full, people standing around in groups and pairs, the hot air reverberating with laughter and chatter, heavy male voices and lighter female ones vying for dominance. A couple of girls from the village were weaving in and out, refilling the glasses and offering trays of unidentifiable one-bite canapés, while Carole bustled and twittered nervously around her guests.

  ‘We can’t go yet,’ Connie said, resisting the pressure on her back. ‘They haven’t cut the cake.’

  Devan let out a pained sigh. ‘Honestly, Connie, I can’t deal with this right now. I feel as if I’m going to explode.’

  She looked up into his face. He was blinking rapidly, his mouth twisting, his fists now thrust deep into his trouser pockets. She was hesitating, not knowing what to do, when a man approached them, holding out his hand to Devan, a big grin on his face. He was in his mid-thirties, she thought, blond and broad and blandly tidy in beige chinos. She heard Devan groan quietly.

  ‘All I need,’ he muttered.

  ‘The legendary Dr Mac!’ the man said, pumping Devan’s hand up and down. ‘Such a pleasure to see you again.’

  Connie had no idea who he was.

  ‘Will Beauregard,’ he said, turning to her with his hand held out and the same cheerful grin, as he waited for Devan to respond.

  Devan, Connie could see, was settling his features in a gargantuan effort to be nice. ‘William,’ he said, producing from the depths of his soul his very best smile – the one that had stunned people into submission so often in the past but now looked frayed at the edges. ‘A pleasure indeed.’

  So this is one of the new GPs, she thought. The two doctors had taken over the practice since Devan’s retirement. His back problem had been cited as the reason for him going, but really it was because he couldn’t cope any more with the pressure of a single-GP practice in this day and age. He’d had two permanent locums who worked part-time alongside him and a loyal support team, but it was still too much. For years Connie had witnessed the strain he’d been under – her husband put his work before anything else. She’d thought at the time that he’d welcome being free of such a massive responsibility when he was still young enough, at sixty-one, to do all the things he’d never had time for. But so far it hadn’t worked out that way.

  After a few short weeks, when he was on a ‘school’s-out’ high, Devan had begun to sink. As the days went by he did less and less, his initial enthusiasm for retirement turning into a listless rant about petty stuff: someone stopping across their parking space for ten minutes, the noise of a hedge trimmer, the next-door neighbour’s climber invading the trellis on their side of the wall. This wasn’t the Devan Connie knew. These petty fixations were ageing him. The vital, charming doctor had turned into an old man overnight. He’d always been so enthusiastic, so full of energy, it never entered her head that he wouldn’t embrace retirement with the same verve – maybe, after a break, take on some consultancies or volunteer, write articles and contribute to journals and websites, as many of his colleagues did when they left the health service. Devan had mentioned these options over the years, although never in direct relation to himself.

  ‘How’s it going? You know you can always be in touch if you or Rob need help with anything. It can be a little overwhelming at first,’ he was saying to Will, assuming the tone of elder statesman.

  Will smiled his thanks. ‘Our only problem is the patients all want to be seen by the brilliant Dr Mac. We both feel like the poor relations at the moment.’

  Devan gave a self-deprecating laugh, although Connie noted the gratified flush on his cheeks. ‘They complained enough when they had me,’ he joked.

  Ting, ting, ting … The spoon tapping insistently against Tim’s glass interrupted further conversation and Connie turned to see that the cake had been brought through and placed on a round, polished walnut table in the centre of the room. It was a towering three-tier confection of chocolate icing, raspberries and white chocolate flakes, two sparkler candles in the numbers six and four adorning the top tier.

  Tim, his arm round the shoulders of his timid wife – seeming, to Connie, as if he were crushing the very life out of her – began to expound on her virtues, as he did every year, and Connie switched off. She laughed when everyone else did, but surreptitiously she was eyeing the new doctor standing at her side. It was strange, after thirty years, to imagine someone else in the role that Devan had inhabited so authoritatively for so long. He was, as Beauregard suggested, a legend in the area, his diagnostic nous, dedication and impeccable bedside manner vastly appreciated by the sick and dying. Where has that man gone? she wondered sadly.

  Connie and Devan walked the mile home across the field and down the steep lane to their house in silence. It was chilly and grey. Although the squall had passed, the wind was still strong across the Levels.

  ‘William bloody Beauregard,’ Devan muttered sourly, as they tramped on. ‘Sounds like something out of the American Civil War. Wasn’t there a General Beauregard who got killed for doing something brave and foolish?’

  Connie laughed. ‘He seems OK. The solid, cheerful sort.’

  ‘He won’t be cheerful for long,’ Devan harrumphed.

  She grabbed his arm, gave him a squeeze. ‘Stop it, will you? You’ve had a really good career out of that surgery.’ Her husband was silent. ‘And there’ll be two of them,’ she added.

  Still no response. Then Devan said, ‘I think he’s a bit of a smug twat, if I’m honest.’

  Connie snatched away her hand. She was worn out from trying to sympathize with him. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Be a miserable old bastard. Will was only being friendly. You could tell he really respected you and your reputation.’

  Later that night she lay in bed alone. She’d had a long talk with her daughter as soon as Devan declared he was going to the pub after supper. The Skittle House – ‘Skittles’ to the locals – was on the corner of the main street, the publican a Yorkshireman called Stacy, friend to them both.

  ‘Are you worried?’ Caitlin had asked, after Connie had filled her in about her father’s mood. ‘He sounded very grumpy when I called him last week. Said he was really missing you.’

  Connie sighed. ‘So he keeps telling me. But when I’m here, he does nothing but avoid me. All he seems to want to do is stare at his phone, watch sport and drink too much. He’s at the pub right now, despite boozing all day at the Hutchisons’.’

  ‘And he won’t consider antidepressants?’

  ‘Well, no … because he’s not depressed, is he? According to his own expert medical opinion, your dad’s merely “adjusting” to a big life change.’

  ‘Well, I suppose he might have a point. It’s not even a year since he stopped working.’

  Connie had sighed, aware that Devan’s distress dated much further back than that. ‘I know, but …’

  ‘Poor Mum. Must be hell, having him so grouchy all the time.’ Caitlin paused. ‘I hope he’s not being mean to you.’

  ‘God, no. Your dad would never be mean,’ Connie said firmly, anxious to dispel her daughter’s concern. Although she’d almost rather he was mean – that he’d say something she could really get her teeth into and they could have a good old-fashioned row. They’d always been good at rowing, and even better at making up. Instead, the constant drip, drip of dyspeptic sniping and lack of motivation dragged her down so much that she was beginning to dread being in his company for any length of time.

  Mother and daughter had talked on for a while, mainly about Bash, Connie’s three-year-old grandson – who’d apparently sprayed the sitting room with quantities of suntan lotion while his m
um was making his tea, leaving pockets of gunk in the loop pile of the sisal carpet, which Caitlin was finding impossible to get out.

  Connie read after the call, finally drifting off around eleven. Devan was still not home, but Stacy sometimes had a lock-in for his mates on a Sunday night. She wasn’t worried.

  The sound of her mobile woke her from a very deep sleep. Devan’s number came up on the screen, but it wasn’t her husband who spoke. ‘Connie, it’s Stacy here. Slight problem. ’Fraid your old man’s kaylied, can’t seem to stand up on his own. Thought I’d bring him home, but he doesn’t have his keys on him … I worried you wouldn’t hear the bell.’

  Connie sat up. ‘God, Stacy, I’m so sorry. I’ll come and get him.’

  ‘It’s no bother. If you’d just open the door.’

  She thanked him and tumbled out of bed, pulling her dressing gown over her pyjamas as she hurried downstairs. She saw her husband’s keys immediately, sitting on the ledge by the front door.

  The following morning Devan staggered down to the kitchen around ten o’clock. Connie and Stacy had tried to give him water, then coffee, the night before, but their attempts had just met with flailing arms and angry grunts. So they’d dragged him upstairs and dropped his dead weight onto the spare bed – in what used to be Caitlin’s room. Connie, mortified at her husband’s behaviour, had thanked the publican profusely, then ripped off Devan’s trainers and wrapped him in the section of duvet not already squashed under his prone, fully clothed body. She’d spent a sleepless night worrying that he might vomit, choke and die. But she was too angry to sleep in the same room as his chain-saw snoring and make sure he didn’t. By morning she was not in the greatest of moods.

  ‘Hi.’ Devan slumped into a kitchen chair and eyed her cautiously as she began to unload the dishwasher on the far side of the room. When she saw him sitting there, so pathetic, so wasted, she began to slam the plates and cups onto the shelves, hurl the cutlery into the drawer, clank the pans and bang the cupboard doors shut. The cacophony made her ears sing, but she didn’t care.

  Her husband didn’t flinch, however, and when she eventually shut the last cupboard door and leaned on the other side of the kitchen table, slightly out of breath and glaring at him, he gave her a sad smile.

  ‘Made your point.’ He straightened up, still in his clothes from the day before. ‘Listen, I’m really sorry about last night. I don’t know what got into me. I think it was seeing that shiny new doctor, bursting with vim and vigour. It just reminded me of myself, all those years ago …’

  Connie gazed at him. ‘Retirement doesn’t have to be grim, you know,’ she said gently. Despite her irritation, she did feel sorry for him. She understood how hard it could be for anyone, going full tilt for so many years, then having nothing to get out of bed for. But that was months ago now and, if anything, he seemed even more unhappy. The problem was, he’d never made an actual plan about what he would do when he stopped working. Suggestions had been bandied about, but neither of them had given it proper, serious thought. He’d been too stressed at the time, and since then, apparently too low.

  He stared at her for a second, a calculating edge appearing in those deep blue eyes. ‘Really? Maybe you should try it sometime,’ he said, raising his eyebrows in question, the faint smile that accompanied it barely reaching his eyes.

  Connie shook her head. This subject had been slowly building a head of steam over the past year. Now hardly a week passed when Devan didn’t try his luck. ‘I’ve told you a million times …’ she sat down so she could meet his eye ‘… I’m not ready. It’s different for you. You got to the stage where you hated your work. I still love mine.’

  Devan’s expression hardened as she watched him rasp his fingers roughly across the day-old stubble on his chin. ‘I didn’t hate my work,’ he said dully. ‘I always hoped I’d keep going till I was at least seventy. It just became impossible … too many patients, not enough time or money.’ He gave a dispirited sigh. ‘I keep thinking I’ve made a terrible mistake, giving it all up. But then I remember the reality.’

  She’d heard the same thing so often she felt she was running out of ways to respond helpfully. He was, she was certain, using her retirement as a peg upon which to pin his unhappiness. ‘But there are loads of things you could do now,’ she said encouragingly. ‘You were going to ring Lillian, weren’t you, find out about that medical website she works for? Or you could talk to your mates at the Royal College of GPs – they’re bound to have some ideas. With your expertise …’

  Devan gave a dismissive shrug. ‘There was one thing that cheered me up, Connie, when things were getting on top of me at the surgery and I knew I’d have to quit,’ he said, completely ignoring her suggestions. ‘It was the thought you and I would finally have time, after all these manic years of work, to do stuff together – hang out with the family, go places, see things, meet people.’ He levelled his gaze at her, clearly on a mission to make her understand. ‘We’ve always wanted to do South America, the Great Wall … You haven’t even been to Australia yet. And little Bash, you hardly see him because you’re always away. He won’t be young for ever, you know.’

  Connie frowned, her face set. She also looked forward to doing some of the travelling Devan was suggesting. But her summer tours didn’t preclude that. She was only away – sporadically – from April to October, which left five months free. What upset her now was the below-the-belt accusation about their grandson. She was the first to admit she didn’t see enough of him when she was working, but she tried really hard to make up for it during the rest of the year.

  ‘You’re not being fair, Devan. I never said I’d retire when you did.’ Stupidly, she’d come to realize, she hadn’t considered it might be a problem. When Devan didn’t immediately agree with her, she went on more gently, ‘Did I?’

  He gave her a sulky look. ‘Maybe not as such. But I assumed, once I did, that you would too.’

  ‘We never talked about it, though, did we?’ Connie kept her tone reasonable, but his voice rose.

  ‘So? You’re going to keep on doing this silly job for the next ten years, just to spite me?’

  ‘“Silly”?’ She was hurt. He sounded like Lynne, her elder sister. Lynne was the one who’d been to college, eventually becoming head of admissions at Aberystwyth University, unlike Connie, who’d dropped out of school at seventeen. She always seemed to put patronizing quote marks round the word ‘job’, when talking about Connie’s trips.

  Not that Connie needed validation for what she did. It was her dream job, always had been. She’d previously worked – not as happily – for a self-styled lifestyle guru with an emporium in Bridgwater. Fiona Raven was a chef, designer and broadcaster, who wrote cookery and party books, and produced her own range of gourmet foods, such as jars of cooking sauces, fruit compôtes and nut butters. Connie was her Girl – then Woman – Friday, a difficult job she knew she did well, but for which she got scant credit from Fiona. So as soon as Caitlin had left home – twelve years ago now – Connie had applied for a manager’s job with a railway-tours company and never looked back. Having found, so much later in life, the job she loved, she had no desire to give it all up just yet.

  Now Devan reached out for her across the table. ‘I didn’t mean silly, you know I didn’t. I’m sorry.’ He looked so weary, suddenly, that she thought he might fall asleep where he sat. ‘I think your job is great, and I know you love it. But what about us, Connie? I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that we’re not getting any younger.’

  ‘Oh, please.’ She pulled her hand from his and stood up. How did the conversation twist away from yesterday’s horrendous binge, so that now it appears to be all my fault?

  Shaking her head in frustration, she moved round the table, wrapped her arms around her husband’s shoulders, kissed his bent head and tried another tack. ‘I’m worried about you, Devan,’ she said softly. ‘This drinking thing, it isn’t you.’

  For a moment he let her comfort him. But th
en he nudged her arms off and straightened, heaving himself to his feet. He looked wrecked, his tone bleak. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry.’

  Connie took in a big breath to give it a final go. ‘You don’t think you should at least talk to one of the new doctors?’

  The stare he gave her was withering. ‘About what?’

  She didn’t dare mention depression again, as she had so many times. But this time she didn’t need to.

  ‘I’m sick to death of you and Caty implying I’m depressed,’ he said wearily. ‘Depression is an illness, Connie, like lung cancer or diabetes. Its symptoms are well categorized.’ He raised his hand and began ticking off on his fingers. ‘I don’t feel hopeless about the future. I’m not tearful. I’m not anxious. I still take real pleasure in lots of things – like a good glass of wine or a rugby match.’ He gave her a tight smile. ‘I’m not depressed.’

  She didn’t speak, noting there was no mention of herself in his current list of pleasures.

  ‘Maybe I’m not on top form at the moment,’ he went on, ‘but that’s mostly to do with my bloody back. And if you seriously think I’m going to share my innermost thoughts with either of those smug twelve-year-olds, then you’ve got another think coming.’

  His look challenged her to disagree. But she still said nothing. What was the point?

  ‘I’m going to take a shower,’ he said, turning away.

  Connie heard him slowly climb the stairs, then a minute later the sound of the shower pump from the bathroom. She sat down again, exhausted. She had no idea how best to help him. He’d always been wilful – it was what had made him a good doctor. He would fight to the bitter end to secure the care he thought a patient needed. But when it came to himself, he was blind as to how his actions were affecting himself and all those around him.

  Tears pricked behind her eyes as she thought back to his repeated pleas that she should retire, or scale back her tours. She didn’t feel her age in the same way Devan clearly did. Her shoulder-length auburn hair had help from Janine at the village hairdresser, these days, and her grey eyes required drops because they were dry. She needed reading glasses, but she’d recently ordered varifocal contact lenses, Which I must pick up before I go away again, she reminded herself. But she was still slim – despite the irritating pad of post-menopausal stomach fat that seemed resistant to all her efforts – and her fair, freckle-prone skin still smooth because it never went in the sun without Factor 50 and a hat. But it wasn’t really about looks. Connie didn’t feel like a woman in her sixties on any level. She was fit and energetic still, and she knew she was good at her job. Her tours provided so much pleasure: to give them up now might crush her.