The Quiet Woman, page 6
Suddenly I felt like skipping.
THIRTEEN
Wednesday 27 September, 3 p.m.
Surgery seemed tedious that afternoon, each patient’s problems mundane. My mind was fixed on my date tonight and the banishment of the ghost Mark had left when he’d used our favourite restaurant to confess his affair with the buck-toothed harpy aka Vivien Morris.
In the end it was Ryan – his usual swagger slightly less showy – who made the day marginally more interesting.
He’d turned up late for his two thirty appointment but made no apology for keeping me waiting, simply sliding into the chair. He tried one of his signature grins but it lacked depth and there was no corresponding cockiness in his eyes. Only a faint anxiety illustrated by the frown that lay between his eyebrows and a certain thoughtfulness.
He pulled up his sleeve displaying the wound which he’d covered with a grubby Elastoplast. I peeled it off gently. I’ve never been in favour of ripping dressings off. Anyone else would have acquired an infection with such poor hygiene but Ryan Wood must have had a robust immune system. It had healed perfectly and I couldn’t help a small twinge of pride when I noted my neat little stitches. I looked up to smile at him, quite expecting him to agree with my comment of ‘nice work’. But he was twitching, staring at the opposite wall, and he looked like the frightened little boy he really was. I often forgot how very young he was – early twenties – but with his life experiences it didn’t count for much. He was streetwise but didn’t really have the resilience, the intelligence, or the family support he’d have needed to survive on his own. He lived intermittently with his alcoholic mother, Celine, who had a succession of boyfriends – all of whom took her for a ride, squeezing money and favours out of her before dumping her. While Ryan looked young and innocent for his age, his mother looked what she was – a world weary alcoholic of the indeterminate age of the heavy smoker with poor nutrition, a bit of a drug habit and a daily alcohol intake measured in bottles rather than glasses. And yet, buried deep underneath, Celine Wood was someone quite different. On the rare occasions when she had, with professional help, temporarily dried out, she displayed a rather sweet, kind, naive nature not unlike her son. But then she always fell back into the bad, unhealthy, life-limiting habits too deeply ingrained to escape from. One day, I feared, she would be found dead at the bottom of the canal or in some city or town street. Somewhere insalubrious. Possibly with a knife sticking out of her. Celine was a woman who attracted the worst responses.
As I removed the stitches, Ryan didn’t flinch but kept his eyes fixed on me rather than his arm. When I’d finished and put a dry dressing over it, I was about to advise him to keep it covered for a day or two when, hesitatingly, he started to speak. ‘Nurse Florence,’ he said, ‘your husband’s a policeman, isn’t he?’
‘Ex-husband,’ I responded automatically, without really thinking. I was clearing away the debris: stitch cutter into the sharps box and the other dressings bagged and into the bin.
‘Ex?’ he queried, sounding disappointed. ‘So you aren’t in touch then …?’ His voice dwindled away.
That was when I finally looked at him. ‘Ryan,’ I said, ‘what’s up?’
He took a long deep breath and was about to speak when there was a sharp knock on the door and Jordan Bannister poked his head round. ‘Got a minute, Flo?’
And the moment melted away. Ryan was already shrugging his jacket back on. He gave me a hesitant, apologetic glance, then left.
I gave Jordan my full attention. ‘So what is it?’ I could have added ‘that’s so important you have to interrupt a consultation?’ but I didn’t.
‘Flu vaccines,’ he said, his voice tense and focussed. ‘How many have we ordered?’
It was hardly an urgent matter though I realized to him it was. We order and pay for flu vaccines and, provided we use them all on the eligible patients, we make a hefty profit.
However, if some slip through the guidelines or are not used at all, those profits quickly dwindle. And Dr Jordan Bannister, with his business brain ever active, would not like that.
As usual, it was a financial concern.
FOURTEEN
7 p.m.
I had an hour to prepare for my ‘date’. Even using the word made me nervous even when I scolded myself. ‘You’re not fourteen, Florence. You’re middle-aged and any illusions you might have had about romance turned out to be proved fairy tales, didn’t they? All froth and no cappuccino. So just enjoy the evening but don’t get your hopes up.’
I’d already decided what I’d wear. Nothing too smart. After all, this was a meal in a local restaurant. Not a night out in Sloane Square. But I still wanted to look my best. And so I kept my make-up subtle, spent some time tidying my bob and slipped on a pair of black Moschino trousers I’d splashed out on when we’d had a backdated pay rise last year and which were very flattering, particularly in the waist and bottom area. I twirled around in front of my full cheval mirror and was glad I’d foregone my lunchtime cake for almost a week. I wouldn’t exactly class myself as svelte but neither could I describe myself as podgy middle-aged. I teamed the trousers up with a blue silk blouse with a pussy bow at the neck and black ankle boots with thick, black, high heels which would just about support the walk to and from the restaurant. Over that I wore a red jacket and was ready in plenty of time. A brisk walk would see me arrive bang on time. Even in heels I can move fast when I want to.
7.45 p.m.
I walked down through the town, stepping past the shops I knew so well; the same shops which line every High Street in almost every town: B&M, Superdrug, Boots the Chemist. Hairdressers, barbers and a few other individual shops which seemed to change hands every couple of years as though they’d tried – hard – and then, slowly realizing there was no passing custom, they yawned their way into a Closing Soon sale and then the To Let signs went back up. It was that quiet time in the evening. Workers gone home, pub drinkers not out yet, the streets empty as people had headed homeward for their tea. My steps echoed on the pavement, my reflection the only movement as I passed darkened shop windows. Stone’s High Street felt more like a ghost town, the opening credits of a spooky film scrolling up, I the sole actress in the drama. An evening breeze swept up the pedestrianized area, keeping me cool in spite of my brisk pace. As I passed Joule’s clock its hands moved towards eight. I managed to arrive at the Thai restaurant just as it chimed and felt a ridiculous pride in my punctuality(I have a sad obsession with timekeeping). Will was already there, standing outside the restaurant, somehow managing to look as though he wasn’t waiting for anyone in particular but was simply loitering. He gave me a wide grin as I approached and to my relief didn’t fall back on any cliché, like ‘you look nice’. The grin was enough. It contained warmth and a certain sincerity which no words could supply and I wondered why I’d hesitated at sharing an evening with him. He had followed the same dress rule as I: smart casual in navy chinos, leather loafers and a dark green sweatshirt. Hmm, I thought, sweeping my gaze from head to foot before returning his smile with a grin of my own.
‘Hi,’ he said, and I felt the warmth of his greeting as he kissed me very gently on the cheek. It marked the beginning of an evening which promised, for the first time, to live up to my fantasy, at the same time setting a stamp on the evening. This. Was. A. Date.
I felt unaccountably happy and contented, suddenly realizing how different the rules were for middle-aged ‘dating’. It felt comfortable with none of the affectations that can mar evenings shared when you’re younger. I took a deep breath in as I felt any awkwardness melting away. I was going to enjoy the evening. It felt like a new start.
He kissed my cheek again, gave me an even broader grin and held the door open. ‘Hungry?’
I understood then that his emotions were mirroring mine.
I nodded.
He’d booked a table which proved unnecessary as few people were eating out midweek and we sat down and pretended to study the menu rather than each other. When I looked up from the menu he was looking at me, his eyes bright with fun. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I am so unused to this, errm, dating thing.’
‘Me too,’ I confessed. ‘It’s been a while.’ I gave one of those mock laughs, the sound you make when you don’t know what to say and the humour hasn’t quite hit.
He was still watching me. ‘I’ve hardly seen you out of uniform and never looking so … .’ He was searching for the word. ‘Glamorous.’
‘Glamorous?’ I queried.
He nodded, repeating the word firmly, ‘Yes, glamorous.’
I was narrowing my eyes as I regarded him, but he met my suspicions with a smile which looked genuine.
We chose our food, a selection of dishes to taste and dipped into them, commenting as we sampled them, balancing each mouthful with chopsticks. He chose a Thai beer while I had a glass of something less exotic, a Spanish Rioja. And gradually I felt myself relax as he asked me about my job which I fended off with some surgery anecdotes (anonymous, of course) while he talked about his role in the police, currently car parts stolen to order and various other traffic related offences. To be honest it sounded a bit boring to me, but then Mark used to say that police work was that: ninety-nine per cent boring; one per cent Action Man. And after the Action Man back to ninety-nine per cent filling out forms, justifying your actions and answering question after question after question …
We skirted around our personal histories although I knew he already knew about Mark and me. Gossip would have been rife around the station. I even confided in him a little of the hurt I had felt when Mark had finally confessed, on the verge of telling him we were at the very site of his confession. The same Thai restaurant, though a different table.
We turned to his past. ‘You haven’t been snatched up by a fellow officer?’ I’d tried to make it sound like a tease but it didn’t. It sounded exactly what it was – a probing question made by someone who was wondering just how far this ‘friendship’ might go.
Luckily for me and my integrity William Summers treated it as a casual enquiry, without any hidden agenda, shaking his head without regret. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve escaped the noose.’ It was the first misstep of the evening. I felt my face darkening. I don’t like men who describe marriage as a noose.
Perhaps sensing my reaction to his comment, he retrieved it. ‘Not that I think of marriage as a noose,’ he said quickly, ‘at least not when it’s to the right person.’ He took a big swig of beer and frowned into the neck of the bottle, speaking into it. ‘I was in a long-term relationship,’ he said before taking another swig and sighing. ‘I have no idea how or why it lasted so long.’ He was looking past me now, studying the gaudy pictures of scarlet and gold dragons and tigers that festooned the walls. ‘She kept nagging me to do something else, something other than policing. More money, regular hours, something more glamorous. And I always felt’ – another swig – ‘inadequate.’
I couldn’t stop myself. ‘That’s horrible. I think I’d almost rather go through what Mark and I had. At least we had some happy years before it all sprung apart. And we did have two children.’
‘Oh yes.’ He brightened up. ‘Children. Tell me about them.’
I smiled. ‘Stuart and Lara. Not exactly children anymore and they have their own lives.’
‘And that’s a bad thing?’ He looked curious, interested in my response without being judgmental. His face was bright, engaged.
‘No. No. Of course not.’ Now it was I who was retrieving a hidden meaning. ‘It’s a good thing.’
‘But?’
That one syllable forced me out in the open. ‘I don’t see much of them.’
Those toffee brown eyes were looking straight into mine and I knew he read it all, the phone calls that never came, the birthday cards that arrived a few days late, if at all, the drop-by visits or lack of invitations to spend a weekend with them. ‘And that’s something you regret.’ It was a statement not an interrogation. And it deserved an honest answer.
I nodded. ‘I wish …’ I began but couldn’t finish. I suddenly felt choked up, a little over emotional, strange and off-kilter. We’d finished our food and reached an odd sort of hiatus in the evening where we looked at each other and didn’t quite know how to end the night. I stood up and made the suggestion. ‘It would be nice to walk back through the town.’
He nodded and I sensed his relief joining my own.
He paid the bill (no going Dutch for him), and as we emerged out on to the street I slipped my hand into his. It felt natural. Together we headed back up the deserted High Street.
Not quite deserted. There was the same bunch of guys gathered in the market square halfway up the High Street. I sensed William’s (I still hadn’t worked out what to call him) tension. His hand gripped mine and, looking at him, I saw his eyes, but not his head, slide left. I’d seen Mark do the same when he’d noted something: a girl alone, a guy following too closely; a group of potential troublemakers; a loiterer whose eyes seemed to be searching for easy prey; a drug taker out of control; a child too young to wander far from an adult; the sound of a car alarm. It was as though his, and now William’s, antennae went up and quivered in the proximity of anticipated crime. I said nothing but stored it away because I had turned my head and seen, at the centre of the pushing, shoving, snarling group of men whose body language indicated pure aggression, Ryan Wood.
Neither Will nor I mentioned it though I knew we had both noticed the same thing. William walked me all the way home with no mention of where he’d left his car or where he actually lived. I didn’t invite him in. Too soon for that and we parted with another chaste kiss – again on my cheek, a simple brush of his lips against my skin.
As he turned to walk away (watched by neighbour Penny, who was staring anxiously out of the window – probably having thrown Darryl out yet again), William said, ‘Shall we do this again?’
I nodded and the date was sealed.
FIFTEEN
Friday 29 September, 1.30 p.m.
My next encounter with Christine Clay was the oddest of all. In fact, it was probably the strangest encounter I have ever had with a patient. It was as though there was a disconnect between us. It came on the back of a quiet and contemplative lunch break. Maybe sparked by William’s question about my children, I’d spent time thinking about my family. In particular, remembering how I’d felt when Lara, then Stuart, had finally left home. The memories had been further stirred by Jalissa’s disconsolate face when she’d brought in her basket of sandwiches and flopped into the chair at the side of my desk.
‘Still missing the children?’
She nodded, two fat tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘I just wait for home time, Florence. House is so quiet I can hardly bear to be inside.’
‘But surely you’re busy making sandwiches all day and then out delivering them?’
‘Yeah.’ She lifted a mournful face to mine. ‘But Charles, he pass me the containers from the fridge and Petronella she dance and sing to me when she home. House is too quiet,’ she said again.
All I could do was nod in sympathy.
We were interrupted by a knock on the door and a face peered round. ‘Florence.’ It was Darcey. Darcey was one of our newer receptionists. She was around sixty and hadn’t really settled into her role as doctors’ receptionist. She simply didn’t know what to do when confronted with almost any situation. At times she booked in patients, adding them into already overbooked surgeries. At others she was aggressive, inviting complaints from the other side of the hatch. She’d previously worked in a bank where, possibly, her attitude was appropriate or at least in proportion to customers’ requests. But the High Street bank had closed and she had been left jobless and couldn’t afford to coast her way to retirement. ‘Not if I want to eat,’ she’d said to me on one occasion when I’d witnessed her dealing with a stroppy, distraught mother who was furious she’d had to bring her two-year-old to the surgery rather than have the doctor visit.
I’d watched her face up to the young mum, crushed by the amount of aggression that was being directed at her. I did feel sorry for her. Life had kicked sand in her face when she’d been unable to change course. It wasn’t her fault she’d lost her job. She’d had the choice of redundancy pay or switch to the Stafford branch but she didn’t drive; her husband was on long-term sick leave following a Covid infection and her pay grade had been such that her redundancy pay wouldn’t exactly fund a pleasant lifestyle. They’d have to watch every penny. And so she had taken the job at the surgery where her manner wasn’t helped by a thin, reedy voice that bleated of inadequacy. Maybe that had held her back in her bank career too.
Jalissa stood up. ‘Best be goin’,’ she said. She picked up her lunch basket and shot out through the door. Gone inside of a second.
‘So?’ I said pleasantly to Darcey. ‘What’s the problem?’ Because it always was a problem.
‘It’s Mrs Clay.’
At which my ears pricked up. ‘What about Mrs Clay?’
‘She’s come to the front desk and is asking to see you.’ She corrected the statement resentfully. ‘Demanding to see you. Now.’
‘With her husband?’
Darcey shook her head. ‘On her own.’
That was when my pulse quickened. ‘Did she say what it was about?’
‘No.’
‘OK,’ I responded. ‘I’ll see her.’
One never knew about these walk-ins. Most of the time they were nothing that couldn’t have waited – and waited – but just occasionally people arrived with a serious condition. Christine Clay had a long history of spurious consultations but Dr Gubb’s words of advice rang in my ears. One could never afford to stop listening, particularly with patients already classed as frequent attenders. And if she was alone it might be the perfect opportunity to unravel some of my curiosity about the relationship with her husband which I’d already judged toxic.
