The beat of the heart
Emily, is anyone out in the corridor? Lydia Whitaker asked, as the last patient of the day slipped out of the consulting room. If not, could you turn the kettle on and fetch the call list from reception?
Lydia had already logged the entry, sipped a cup of tea with a biscuit, and was still waiting for the nurse to return. Just as she was about to ring the reception desk, the door opened and in walked a young woman with dark, glossy eyes and a long braid that reached her waist.
Oh, Lydia, you would not believe the scene at reception! Emily began, her voice trembling with excitement. A lady there caused such a uproar. She arrived late for her appointment and demanded to be seen immediately, shouting and hurling abuse at everyone. It was dreadful.
Did you get caught up in it, or were you merely a spectator? Lydia asked calmly. Did anyone actually see her?
No, of course not, the nurse replied, looking chastened. She was half an hour late, and Dr. Kingsley had already left for his home visits. Miss Allen rescheduled her for tomorrow.
And why with us? Lydia pressed. She was booked with Dr. Kingsley, wasnt she? And why did he leave so early?
Because Dr. Kingsley is on holiday starting tomorrow, Emily said, a hint of irritation in her tone. I warned her that if she was late again we wouldnt take her.
Very well. How many calls do we have today?
As always, Emily sighed, laying the list of patients and addresses on the desk.
Lydia began to read, assigning each name a number and plotting the most efficient route to avoid unnecessary backtracking.
I could never work past retirement, Emily mused dreamily. If I retired tomorrow Id finally get some sleep.
You have two boys, Lydia reminded her. By the time youre eligible for a pension theyll be grown, married, and bringing grandchildren. Youll have no time to rest. And your husband will be retired too, so youll be stuck at home together, nagging each other like two bitter turnips. Who do you think will be the first to sneak back to work?
Emily laughed, a soft, resigned laugh. Youre right, Lydia. In three days well start our holiday, but by the end well be so fed up with each other that well be longing to get back to the surgery. I think its better to take a break apart rather than together. What do you think?
Then why travel together at all? Lydia asked. Whats stopping you from having separate holidays?
Because my boys, Emily sighed. I cant manage them alone, and I cant leave my husband alone either.
Alright, I must be off, Lydia said, rising from her chair. She went to the wardrobe and slipped into a roomy coat she had bought especially for days when she could change straight over her uniform.
She doublechecked that she had everything, then stepped out into the dimming evening. The first address was only a short walk away, and as she set off she kept turning over Emilys words. In her youth she, too, had wondered why retirees kept working, and when they finally left the job they seemed to drift into the same routine of visiting the clinic and the shop as if they were still on the clock. Lydia knew she would be a pensioner next year, but she could not imagine abandoning her work. She still had energy, and she dreaded the thought of sitting alone at home. Grumpy patients like the one at reception were few compared to the grateful ones, and over the years she had built genuine friendships with many. How would they manage without her? What would she do in an empty housewander the rooms or the high street?
She always found that thinking about something while making her rounds made the hours fly. As a schoolgirl she had once dreamed of becoming a surgeon.
The walk took her up a narrow staircase to the third floor of a modest terraced house where Mr. Bernard Skyrme lived. He was a solitary, wellread gentleman with a litany of chronic ailments.
He opened the door before she could even remove her coat. She slipped straight into the bathroom to wash her hands.
Whats the trouble, Mr. Skyrme? she asked as she entered the sitting room.
Dont be angry with me, love, he said, a note of guilt in his voice. He had always called her that, even though Lydia was no longer a fresh graduate of the medical school. Im fine, really. I ran out of my tablets and didnt think ahead. Could you write a prescription? My legs ache, and I cant make it to the surgery.
Lets check your blood pressure first, Lydia said, pulling out her sphygmomanometer. Its a touch high, she noted after a minute.
I havent taken any for three days, the old man admitted.
Ill write the script now. Do your children want you to come home? Its hard being on your own at your age.
They call, but I dont want to bother them, he replied. Whats the point?
Heres the prescription. Ive written my personal number on itdont lose it. Call if anything changes, dont be shy, she said, handing it over.
Thank you, love. Fancy a cup of tea? he asked, bustling about.
Well have tea together next time, Mr. Skyrme. I must be off now, Lydia said, turning back to the hallway. As she dressed, the old man lingered a moment, his eyes softening.
She felt a pang of pity for lonely elders. Im sighing more today than usual, she thought, descending the stairs.
The next name on the list was Ian Golding, twentyeight, a new patient she had never visited before. Whats his story? she wondered. Another truant?
A young man had called the surgery, complaining of a high fever, sore throat and weakness, yet he sounded perfectly fine over the phone. A thermometer sat on the coffee table, its mercury reading alarmingly high. Lydia asked him to take his temperature again and gave the glass a gentle shake. This time it read normal. He claimed he had taken medication and could not wait all day for a doctor. When Lydia declined to issue a sick note, he swore at her and left in a huff.
Such characters stayed with her for life. She had seen all manner of patients.
The door opened for a handsome young man with bloodshot eyes, coughing violently. He looked genuinely ill; if left untreated, complications could follow. Lydia listened, prescribed medication, and made a note to issue a sick note.
He reminded her of David, her first love. She kept scanning the house numbers, trying not to miss the right one. Darkness was settling, streetlamps flickered on, and warm light glowed from the windows. She longed to be home, to sip a strong cup of tea, curl up on the sofa with a blanket and watch a programme. She pushed the comforting thoughts aside; there were still more calls to make.
Why was I thinking of David? she asked herself. He doesnt even look like this. She smiled wryly. Who didnt reminisce about their first love now and then?
She arrived at the final house, exhausted. In the lift she unbuttoned her coat, caught her reflection in the polished door, and noted how the harsh ceiling light accentuated the lines on her face and the shadows under her eyes. She turned away, the lift humming silently upward. The building smelled faintly of fresh paint; the flats seemed spacious, with large kitchensa welcome change from the cramped rooms shed known in her own youth
