Lydia, could you check if anyones in the hallway? No one? Then put the kettle on and fetch the call list from reception, asked Mrs. Lydia Whitaker as the last patient of the day slipped out of the consulting room.
Lydia had already logged the visit, sipped a cup of tea with a biscuit, and was waiting for the nurse to return. Just as she was about to ring reception, Tara Morgan, a young woman with striking dark eyes and a sleek braid down to her waist, walked in.
Lydia, you wouldnt believe the scene at reception! A lady caused a right uproar, Tara began, breathless. She arrived late for her appointment and demanded to be seen immediately, shouting and hurling insults at everyone. It was dreadful.
What happened to you? Were you caught up in it, or just a spectator? Lydia asked calmly. Did anyone take her in?
No, she was half an hour late, and Dr. Clarke had already left for his homevisit round. Alice Harper rebooked her for tomorrow, Tara replied, looking guilty.
Why send her to us? She was scheduled with Dr. Clarke, wasnt she? And why did he leave so early? Lydia pressed.
Because Dr. Clarke starts his holiday tomorrow, Tara said, a hint of annoyance in her voice. I warned the lady that another tardy arrival would mean we wouldnt see her.
Alright. Lots of calls today?
As always, Tara sighed, handing Lydia the list of patients and their addresses.
Lydia began numbering each name, plotting the most efficient route to cut down on driving time and avoid backtracking.
Id never work after I retire. The very next day Id quit, and finally get some proper sleep, Tara mused dreamily.
You have two boys, dont you? By the time you retire theyll be grown, married, and will be handing you grandchildren. Youll have no time to sleep, Lydia replied. Your husband will be retiring soon, too, and the two of you will be stuck at home all day, nagging each other like two sour lemons. Who do you think will be the first to sneak back to work? she added with a grin.
Youre right, Lydia, Tara sighed. Were off on holiday in three days, but by the end well be annoyed with each other so much well be counting the minutes until we return to the clinic. I think its better to spend holidays apart. What do you think?
So why do you travel together? Nothing stops you from taking separate breaks, Lydia asked.
Well the boys. I cant manage them alone, and I cant leave my husband unattended, Tara explained.
Alright, Ive got to go, Lydia said, rising from her desk and heading to the coat rack. She had bought a roomy coat so she could slip it over her uniform without fuss.
She doublechecked her bag, left the consulting room, and stepped into the duskening street. While walking to the first address, she reflected on Taras words. When she was younger she hadnt understood why retirees kept working, and now, with retirement looming, she still didnt want to sit idle at home. Most patients, unlike the screaming lady at reception, were grateful, and over the years she had forged friendly ties with many. How would they fare without her? Would she be left alone, drifting from room to room or shop to shop?
Lydia liked to think about things while making her rounds; it made the hours fly. As a schoolgirl shed dreamed of becoming a surgeon.
She reached the flats and climbed the narrow stairs to the third floor, where she often visited Mr. Brian Sinclair, a solitary, cultured widower with a host of chronic ailments.
He opened the door and ushered her straight into the hallway. Lydia knew his flat well, so she headed for the bathroom to wash her hands.
Whats the matter, Mr. Sinclair? she asked as she entered the room.
Dont be angry, love, he began apologetically, still calling her love even though she was no longer a fresh medical graduate. Im fine, just ran out of my tablets. Could you write a repeat prescription? My legs ache, and Im not keen on trudging to the surgery.
Dont worry. Lets check your blood pressure first, Lydia said, pulling out her sphygmomanometer. A bit high, she noted after a minute.
I havent taken my meds for three days, the old man admitted.
Ill write the script now. Do your children want you to move in with them? It must be hard living alone at your age.
They call, but I dont want to be a burden, he replied.
Heres the prescription, with my personal number. Keep it safe and call if you need anything, Lydia said.
Thanks, love. Fancy a cup of tea? he offered.
Well have tea together next time, Brian. I must be off now, Lydia said, turning to leave. As she dressed, Mr. Sinclair lingered at the doorway, wistful for company.
She felt a pang of sympathy for solitary elders; she herself didnt enjoy being alone. Ive been breathing too much today, I think Ive overachieved my quota of sighs, she thought as she descended the stairs.
The next name on the list was Ian Golikov, twentyeight. Whats his story? she wondered. Shed never visited him before, but she remembered every address.
A young man had called for a home visit, complaining of fever, sore throat, and weakness, yet he looked relatively healthy. A thermometer on the sofa read a high temperature. Lydia asked him to take it again and gave it a gentle shake; the reading returned to normal. He claimed hed taken medication and didnt want to wait all day for a doctor. When Lydia refused to issue a sick note, he cursed at her and sent her away.
Such patients stuck in memory for life. The door opened for a handsome, redeyed man who was clearly ill, coughing violently. Lydia listened, prescribed medicine, and made a note to send a sick note.
He reminded her of David, her first love. She kept scanning house numbers, trying not to miss the right one. Night was falling, street lamps flickered on, and warm light glowed from windows. She longed for home, a strong cup of tea, a comfy sofa, a blanket, and a good TV programme, but pushed the comforting thoughts asidemore calls awaited.
Why am I thinking of David now? He looks nothing like this fellow, she muttered. Of course, memories of a first love surface now and then; who doesnt recall that?
She arrived at the final address, exhausted. In the lift she unzipped her coat, glanced at the mirror on the cabin wall, and saw the harsh ceiling light highlighting the lines on her face and the shadows under her eyes. She turned away from the mirror.
The lift glided smoothly, its walls still bare. The building smelled faintly of new plaster, suggesting spacious flats with generous kitchensnothing like the cramped old rooms shed known.
The seventh floor, announced a calm female voice, and the doors slid open. Lydia almost whispered thank you.
She checked the flat number, pressed the doorbell, and the lock clicked open. A tall, young man stood in the hallway, his face an uncanny duplicate of Davids.
David? she said quietly.
No, Im his son, he replied, noticing the white coat peeking from under his coat and stepping aside to let her in.
Whos there? a voice called from a room, making Lydias heart race.
Doctor, the man shouted back. You can wash your hands here, he gestured toward a bright, spotless bathroom.
Lydia washed her hands, avoiding her reflection. She thought, I should have checked his surname, or at least brushed up my makeup. The young man waited in the corridor, guiding her to a chair by the sofa. She sat, steadied herself, and met his gaze. He had aged, but she recognized him instantly.
Lydia? he said, surprised.
She noted his pallor, the beads of sweat on his forehead, his laboured breathing.
Did you have an ECG recently? she asked his son, who
