PartThree
Happy Place
ChapterTwenty-Four
Five weeks later
Connie insists on an opening ceremony for the surgery, which is no great surprise. Lilly and Meg are given the honour of cutting the ribbon, under close supervision, and with a cheer from the small gathered crowd, I am up and running. There is a doctor in the house, and that doctor is me.
My first patients of the day are a mum and baby, looking for help with nasty nappy rash. My second is an elderly man who wants to talk about his severe flatulence. My third is a lady with constipation. It seems to be a lower-half kind of day, which isn’t at all unusual. I’ll never understand why people get so embarrassed about these things – I mean, come on, we all have bottoms, don’t we? And they all behave in pretty much the same way. Despite this, there’s pretty much nothing guaranteed to make a patient squirm in their seats as much as talking about poo.
I also carry out a couple of blood pressure checks, and prescribe some antacid medication, and check out a toddler’s ear infection. And…that’s it, the rush is over, and my first session is finished. I sit back in my chair, and smile to myself. I’ve probably seen less patients in an entire day here than I would in a couple of hours in London. Nobody was desperately sick, nobody swore at me, and nobody tried to steal my prescription pad. All things considered, it was a win.
I finish up some paperwork, and look around at my new empire. As requested, I now have a separate back door, and a small waiting room that isn’t in the main hall, so patients don’t feel like they’re putting on a show when they want to talk about their health. I have some shiny new equipment, a computer with my very own dongle, and the skeleton has had a brush up – in addition to his top hat and shades he now has a bright pink feather boa, courtesy of the girls’ dressing up box. They’ve also provided a potted spider plant, complete with fairy.
In the end, Connie had the bright idea of contacting the existing surgery, which is in the nearest town. We came to an agreement that I would set up as a satellite, on a trial basis for 12 weeks, at the end of which everyone will sit down and see what might happen next.
It’s taken a while to sort out the formalities, and I used some of that time visiting my mum and dad in Portugal, and going to see Lucy in Ireland. I’ve finalised the legal stuff with Mark, and moved into the attic room above the bakery, which is now looking a lot more like home. Larry stayed with George while I was away, and is also with him during surgeries – dog friendly is one thing, but nobody wants an inquisitive hound sticking their nose into their personal business. And I mean that quite literally.
I have been back for five nights now, and on each of those nights, I have as usual finished my day with a drink at the inn, accompanied by Jake. Now I’m not on holiday, though, I’ve swapped out the daily cocktails for cranberry juice – I’ll save the hard stuff for weekends.
Things with Jake have been…nice. That’s a bland word, but it’s the right one. We have enjoyed our chats, and put the world to rights, and shared more of ourselves, but we have done it in a purely platonic way. At least, mainly platonic – I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t always that hint of something more just beneath the surface: the momentary thrill when our hands accidentally touch, a lingering look as I make my farewells and head home. It could be so much more than it is, but I can only take so many changes at once.
I am logging out of my computer system when Connie arrives. She puts a small white paper bag on my desk, which I know will contain something deeply sugar-based, and plonks herself down opposite me.
“Do you have an appointment?” I ask in mock-formality, trying to ignore the bag. How everybody in this village isn’t a diabetic is beyond me.
“No, but I hoped you’d fit me in… I don’t just come bearing a croissant. I’ve brought you something exciting as well.”
“Is it contagious?”
“Well, it does pass from person to person…”
She rummages around in her huge bag, which seems to be as organised as everything else in Connie’s orbit, and eventually emerges with a walkie-talkie. I am stupidly excited to get my own, even if it’s not gold-plated.
She makes a triumphant ‘Ta-da!’ sound as she lays it on the desk, and gives me a brief run-through of the instructions. As the instructions basically amount to switching it on, going to a channel and pressing a button, I don’t feel overwhelmed.
“Now,” she says seriously, as I experiment with it, “we’ve been talking about your call sign, and we have some ideas. I’ve left a notepad out at the café for the last week, and people have written their suggestions down.”
“Oh,” I reply, as her head disappears into her bag again. “Is there anything wrong with, you know…my name?”
She finally finds the notepad, and gives me a sympathetic look.
“Oh Ella, haven’t you been here long enough to know that just won’t work for us?”
“Yeah, okay. What have we got then?”
She starts to read the list out loud, making me laugh as she gives a commentary on who suggested what. The ideas include Dr Who, Dr Dre, Dr Spock, Dr Phil, Dr Doolittle, Dr Beat, Dr Sleep, Dr Strange and, alarmingly, Dr Frankenstein. There is also Dr Jones, which we both immediately rule out as it’s impossible to say it without following up by singing the chorus of the Aqua song – totally inappropriate in a medical emergency.
“I’m not feeling any of those,” I say, shaking my head, wracking my brains and coming up blank. “Leave it with me.”
“Maybe you could ask Jake what he thinks…”
“Maybe I could,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at her. “Are you building up to an interrogation? Because I warn you, I have a wide selection of syringes, and I’m not afraid to use them.”
“Oh, you are no fun at all!” she exclaims, petulantly.
“Don’t pout, Connie, you’re too old to carry it off.”
