Questions Of Trust: A Medical Romance (2 page)

‘And after my Reginald passed on twelve years ago, I couldn’t bear the thought of moving,’ she said matter-of-factly. She had a son in Oxford and a daughter in London, a brood of grandchildren – ‘So I’m well trained when it comes to babysitting duties, if you ever need me for your little one,’ she added as an aside – and a horde of cats.

And, it turned out, an encyclopaedic knowledge of the details of the lives of almost every resident of the town, young or old. Mrs McFarland knew who got on with whom, which family was feuding with which. She was a member of the Women’s Institute, the local Neighbourhood Watch, the church committee, the horticultural society. She took in laundry and ironing for a small fee, baked for various fetes, delivered pamphlets door to door for any number of causes, and was a regular letter writer to the local newspaper. Margaret McFarland was, in short, a pillar of the community.

As well as a busybody and a gossip, Chloe thought, hiding a smile behind her mug. She’d taken to this bossy, fussy lady immediately, sensing a deep kindness beneath the bluster.

Chloe was a good listener. It was a quality that came naturally to her, and she’d cultivated it further in her career as a journalist. So for what seemed like half an hour she was content to let Mrs McFarland ramble on about herself, town life, and even the state of the wider world. Eventually even Mrs McFarland seemed to run out of steam, and perhaps become aware that she was truly monopolising the conversation.

‘There I go again, blethering on about me, me, me,’ she said, helping them both to more tea from the pot despite Chloe’s half-hearted protests. ‘Where are my manners? What about you, dear? What’s your story?’

In other circumstances such a blatant question would have rubbed Chloe up the wrong way, but by now she’d got used to the older woman and her manner so she didn’t mind. ‘Jake and I have moved up from north London. We needed a change of scene, and Pemberham looked ideal.’ Before the obvious question could be asked –
why did you need a change of scene?
– Chloe went on: ‘I’m a journalist by training. I’ve had an expression of interest from the Pemberham Gazette, so I’m hoping that’ll bear fruit.’

‘A fine paper.’ Mrs McFarland nodded her approval. ‘But I didn’t know they were looking for a new reporter. They’ve four already.’

Is there anything that goes on in this town you don’t know?
Chloe wondered wryly. ‘I do mostly freelance work, and the
Gazette
’s editor has read some of the stuff I’ve submitted and liked it. He says he might have a couple of commissions for me.’

‘Splendid.’ For the first time, Mrs McFarland seemed lost for words. Chloe knew she was burning to ask a particular question, and decided that it would be best to bring it out into the open from the start, rather than allow speculation and gossip to take on a life of their own.

Quietly Chloe said, ‘It’s just Jake and I, by the way. I lost my husband a year ago.’

‘Ah.’ Mrs McFarland nodded sadly. ‘He must have been mad.’

Chloe frowned. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘To have left a pretty girl like you. Some men…’

‘Oh.’ Chloe understood, and felt her anger seeping away. ‘No. It’s not like that. He didn’t leave me, not in that sense. Mark died.’

Mrs McFarland put her hand over her mouth and stared at Chloe. Then she covered her eyes and peeped out between splayed fingers.

‘Oh, my… I’m so, so sorry. Forgive me. How could I have…?’

‘It’s all right.’ Chloe managed to smile. But the memory stabbed at her, hard and cold as if the past year hadn’t dulled it, and suddenly she didn’t want to talk about it any more, and hoped the other woman wouldn’t ask her for details because she’d have to ask her to leave.

To Chloe’s relief, Mrs McFarland changed the subject, not abruptly as people often did when embarrassed by another person’s grief, but smoothly and naturally. She began to enumerate practicalities: waste collection days, useful contacts in the town council, local hospital facilities. Chloe reached for a notebook and paper but Mrs McFarland said, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll print it all out for you.’

Jake was getting fractious and was clearly in need of a nap. Mrs McFarland took the hint. At the door Chloe said, ‘Goodbye, Margaret. And thank you for the welcome. I really appreciate it.’

‘If there’s anything you need, I mean anything at all, you know where I am.’

Chloe watched the small woman make her way back towards her own cottage.

Anything I need?
she thought.
I need for the last year not to have happened. I need to have Mark back.

  The blackness began to crowd down on her, even in the brightness of the early spring afternoon, and she stepped back inside and closed the door.

***

Normally, Dr Tom Carlyle’s schedule was straightforward on a Tuesday. See his last patient at 4.45 pm, finish up by 5.30 at the latest, then beat the rush-hour traffic across town to get to the nursery a couple of minutes before it closed at six. Over the last year Tom had got used to the rhythm of the day and had all the manoeuvres down like clockwork.

The problem was, today his last patient was Mr Biswas.

Mr Biswas was a seventy-five-year-old man with diabetes. He’d had the illness since his twenties and it wasn’t ever going to go away, but for the last few years it had been reasonably well managed with a carefully fine-tuned regime of insulin injections, oral hypoglycaemic medications, and diet, to which Mr Biswas stuck more or less religiously depending on his frame of mind. More recently, however, the elderly man had begun to succumb to the long-term complications of the disease, and as a result his vision was deteriorating, his kidneys were functioning at a fraction of their optimal capacity, and the nerve fibres in his feet were failing to provide adequate information to his brain about sensations such as pressure and pain.

It was this last complication that was of most concern to Tom. His patient had come in for a routine check, and his cheery manner and ready smile was at first reassuring to Tom, suggesting that all was well. But when he unwrapped the dressing from around Mr Biswas’s left foot towards the end of the consultation, his heart sank. The ulcer on the man’s heel, previously mending well, had now reverted to an ugly crater.

‘Everything all right, doc?’ Mr Biswas asked.

Tom glanced up at him ruefully. ‘Afraid not.’

‘Not the ulcer again?’

‘Yep.’

There was nothing for it. The wound needed immediate swabbing, cleaning, dressing and covering with oral antibiotics, at least until the culture from the swab came back in a few days to reveal the nature of the infection. Tom knew for a fact that the practice’s nurse had left early for the day, and his fellow doctor, Ben Okoro, was busy with other patients.

Tom moved swiftly through the building, gathering the materials he needed, glancing as discreetly as he could at his watch. Five twenty-five. He’d need to finish sorting the wound out in ten minutes, tops, if he was going to make it to the nursery before it closed. Those ten minutes included getting the notoriously talkative Mr Biswas out the door without being rude to the poor man.

As Tom worked briskly, he was struck by his patient’s complete lack of reaction when he prodded and poked the wound. Most people would have hit the roof with the pain, but it was an indication of just how advanced the peripheral neuropathy was in the elderly man’s foot that he seemed not to feel a thing.

‘All done,’ said Tom, as measuredly as he could, dropping the various bits of waste into their particular containers. He scribbled a prescription – like many doctors, he’d started his career with impeccably neat handwriting which had over the years degenerated into a childish and almost illegible scrawl – and surreptitiously checked his watch again.

Five forty. He wasn’t going to make it.

A thought struck him. ‘Who brought you here, Mr Biswas?’

‘My son,’ said the old man. ‘He’s driving round the block. He couldn’t find parking.’

Tom tried not to let his dismay show. He’d have to wait with his patient until the son arrived, because he needed to talk to him about the importance of dressing his father’s wound regularly in a certain way.

Tom helped Mr Biswas with the crutches he’d supplied him – fortunately the man had used them before – and guided him slowly out into the waiting room. A couple of patients looked up from their magazines, smiled and nodded at him. Dr Okoro’s patients, whom under other circumstances Tom might offer to see on his colleague’s behalf. But not today.

At five forty-seven by the clock on the wall, the door to the surgery opened and a young Asian man came in, out of breath as if he’d been running. He stopped when he saw Tom and his father.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late. Had to park down the hill in the end.’

Tom had a quick word with him about the dressings, then hesitated. ‘If you’re parked down the hill... Mr Biswas, I’ll give you both a lift to your car.’

The elderly man shook his head.

‘Doctor, you are in a hurry. You have been very patient with me. Please, go. My son can bring the car up and keep it running while I come out.’

‘Mr Biswas, it’s really no problem –’

‘Thank you, we will be fine.’

Burning with guilt, Tom thanked him, pulled on his coat, said goodbye to Davina the receptionist and hurried out. Had it really been so obvious that he was in a rush? Had he appeared impatient? It wasn’t Mr Biswas’s fault, after all, that Tom was on a tight schedule.

As he dashed to his car, a three-year-old Ford station wagon, he speed-dialled the nursery on his mobile phone. It was answered before the first ring finished.

‘Megan? Tom Carlyle here, Kelly’s dad. Look, I’m really sorry. I’m running a bit late.’

He pictured rather than heard her sigh.

‘Tom... how late?’

‘Just leaving now. I should be ten minutes. Fifteen max.’

‘Since when did it take you ten minutes to get across town in this traffic?’

‘I’ll get there by magic carpet if I have to.’

‘This is, what? The fourth time now?’

‘Hello... hello?’ Tom rubbed his cuff across the mouthpiece to simulate static. ‘You’re breaking up.’

He put the phone away, dropped into the front seat of his car and took off.

In the event, he pulled up outside the nursery at six twenty-two. The place was deserted apart from two figures in the front garden: Megan, the nursery manager, and a little girl of four. As always, Tom felt his heart leap, doubly so as he climbed out and she caught sight of him and yelled, ‘Daddy!’ in a voice of unfeigned delight. She ran to him, a tall child for her age with her fair hair in a plait – one of the staff must have done that during the day, as Tom certainly hadn’t when he’d got her dressed that morning – and collided with him like a missile meeting its target.

As his daughter babbled excitedly in his ear, cramming one anecdote about her day into another so that they made little sense, Tom winced an apology at Megan. The nursery manager looked exasperated rather than angry.

‘The last time,’ Tom said, having to raise his voice to make himself heard. ‘Promise.’

‘You said that before,’ chided Megan, fishing her own car keys out of her pocket.

Embarking on the journey home, with Kelly strapped into her seat in the back but still chattering unstoppably, Tom drew deep breaths, trying to force himself to relax. Megan was right. He’d promised before, and he couldn’t guarantee he’d always be on time in the future. Two days a week he collected Kelly from nursery in the afternoon, and left her with a babysitter later when he went to do his evening surgery. Those days weren’t a problem. It was the three days on which he had to be there before the nursery closed at six that were becoming increasingly difficult to manage. He could, he supposed, ask somebody to pick his daughter up from nursery on those days, but Tom had an aversion to the idea, and felt he couldn’t trust anyone to fetch her and bring her home safely. It was irrational, he knew, but it was there nonetheless.

Single parenthood. He’d heard it was difficult, had sympathised with those of his patients who found themselves in a similar position… but his understanding of it had been merely theoretical before. Now, living the life, he had a new appreciation for those who coped with it for years on end. Did it get easier as one became more accustomed? Well, he supposed he’d find out in time.

Tom found himself thinking about the new patients at the practice today, Chloe Edwards and her son Jake. Mrs Edwards herself was a lone parent, Tom assumed, otherwise her husband or partner would have registered at the same time as the rest of the family. She’d seemed distracted, harassed even. Had she too found herself recently left to raise her family single-handedly? Or was her unsettled air simply the result of the upheaval of moving house and the numerous hassles, minor and major, that inevitably came with such a big life event? 

Tom didn’t think he was a particularly self-deluding man, and he recognised immediately that his thoughts had drifted to Chloe Edwards not just because of what they perhaps had in common. He had to admit she was an intensely attractive woman, even with her slightly offhand air. Thirty years old (he felt a twinge of guilt that he didn’t need to guess her age because her date of birth was on the registration form she’d filled out), there’d been an elegance about her despite the casualness of her clothes, a thin black sweater and jeans. Long, straight dark hair, a deep black, framed her pale, unlined face, and her eyelashes appeared naturally thick and highlighted the hazel of her eyes.