His tone was softer, quieter than usual. ‘We’ve got a date for the funeral. Three weeks today, 25 August. So, I think it would be right and proper if we all attended and showed our respects.’
‘Of course,’ said Linda, her voice breaking.
Alison echoed her. I mumbled something. I don’t know what. I was only aware of the word ‘funeral’ obsessively repeating in my head. Funeral. Funeral. Funeral. I appeared still, composed, but my hands were shaking behind my back.
‘Now, it’s in Kensal Rise, so that’s easy for us all, and it’s at one o’clock . . . So this is what I propose: we have morning surgery. Last patients should be booked for midday. Then we’ll organize cabs for half twelve . . . Linda, can you arrange this, please?’ She nodded. ‘I should imagine the whole funeral and cremation will be done and dusted, if you’ll excuse the terminology, around one forty-five. Then we’ll go on to the wake, which is at a hotel in Kensington.’
‘Very good, Dr Harris,’ said Linda, jotting the information into a notebook.
‘But . . . and there is a “but”, I’m afraid. Dr Stevens won’t be attending the funeral, as . . . well, he never even met Dr Williams, and I can’t close the surgery. So he’ll be here the whole day as usual. And a nurse, of course. Which means, I’m afraid, one of you will have to return after the service to cover reception in the afternoon. Which sadly means not coming to the wake. Now, I think that—’
‘I’ll do it, Dr Harris.’ I raised my hand like an eager schoolchild. ‘I can forfeit the funeral as well if it makes things easier.’
‘Oh . . . well, that’s very kind, Constance. I was going to suggest . . . as you’ve been here the shortest time . . . but excellent. And no, no, no, I wouldn’t dream of you missing the funeral, don’t you worry. I know Dr Williams was most fond of you.’
The only time, ever, Dr Harris had been nice to me, and he didn’t realize that he wasn’t being nice at all. Regardless, I thanked him for his shitty, misplaced kindness, before he returned to his office, Linda in tow.
Back at my desk, I was unable to concentrate. My mood darkened, stress increased, and I could feel cortisol spreading throughout my body. Your dismissiveness towards me, the fear of attending the funeral, the story Alison was telling me about joining a rambling club with Kevin. And when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Linda returned and pulled her chair up next to me.
‘Constance, can I have a word?’
I turned towards her, deadpan.
‘Dr Harris is coming in on Saturday to finish these reports and update the database and needs one of us to work for half a day. Now, Alison and I have already spoken . . .’
I looked at Alison, who moved her head nearer to the computer screen, pretending to be oblivious.
‘And we think it’s only fair you did it as you’ve been off this week.’
‘Off sick.’
‘Well, you hurt your foot, yes . . . but it makes it a much longer week for us two . . . and I have my cycling club, you see, on Saturdays, and Alison, well, she’s got to—’
‘Fine. OK, I’ll do it,’ I said, unable to cope with hearing about Alison’s plans for the weekend. And my brain couldn’t even process the words ‘Linda’ and ‘cycling club’ being in the same sentence.
‘Thank you, Constance,’ said Alison. ‘It’s just that Kevin and I are—’
‘It’s no problem, Alison, really.’
A grim atmosphere hung for the next hour. We all intently got on with our work. In silence. The only talking that took place was with patients. This new way of working meant I had at least finished the report, but as I walked over to the printer to collect the sheets, my pulse quickened as I noticed you coming towards the desk.
‘Hello, ladies.’
From the corner of my eye, I could see Linda and Alison greeting you with syrup and giggles. I, however, kept my head down, cool, calm, counting the printed pages.
‘I’m off to Harley Street now for the remainder of the day and won’t be back till Monday. So can you take messages and ring me there if urgent?’
‘Will do, Dr Stevens. See you next week,’ said Linda.
‘Bye, Dr Stevens. Have a nice weekend,’ said Alison.
‘Thank you. You too. Bye. Goodbye, Constance.’ You projected your voice.
I looked up, slow-blinked, deeply unimpressed. ‘Yeah, sorry . . . bye.’ Then immediately returned my eyes to the papers and shuffled them intently, ensuring you understood that I was more interested in the sheets than your departure.
You left, and I was satisfied I’d deflected some of my earlier humiliation back onto you.
Being in the surgery on a Saturday was, frankly, weird and perturbing. It was cold in there. Even smelt different. Five minutes after I’d arrived, Harris plonked a cardboard archive box full of files onto my desk and instructed me to either update the database or erase if they were no longer a patient/dead. Even Call of Duty was preferable to that. The only thing that made it bearable was that as the surgery was closed, I was allowed to listen to the radio.
I came to terms with the fact that the only way through this was to work my bollocks off. Get it done as fast as possible, then escape. So I did. I worked harder than I’d ever done before. Which went totally against my nature. It was made marginally easier with the aid of Frank, Lesley Gore, Aretha . . . The sounds of my childhood. My life. My dad, blurred-faced, playing along on the guitar. Mum dancing in the lounge, laughing. Bending down, holding my tiny hands, wiggling me from side to side.
Despite the crappy work, I enjoyed being there. That parallel world within my mind.
Even Harris seemed impressed with what I’d achieved and told me to have a tea break at eleven. By half twelve I’d done so well I was singing along to Dusty Springfield, finishing off my last file.
Then there was a knock at the door.
I stopped. Confused, I looked towards Dr Harris’s room in case he was expecting someone, but he didn’t emerge. The knocking came again. This time harder, longer.
Presuming someone had got the wrong address, I went over to open it. As I pulled inwards, my free hand automatically shielded my eyes from the blinding sun. And so it took a moment for me to realize that it was you.
‘Oh . . . thank God you’re still here.’ You walked in past me as I opened the door fully.
‘Is everything OK, Dr Stevens?’
It wasn’t the ‘you’ I was familiar with. It was a sweaty, dressed in shorts and damp T-shirt, exposed muscular legs ‘you’.
‘Apart from being a total moron, yes, I’m fine . . . I . . .’ You could barely get your words out. Placed your hands on your hips and leant forward. ‘Sorry . . . stitch . . . I thought I’d do something positive this morning . . . Got up, went for a run. I haven’t run for ages . . . clearly. So I do five miles—’
‘That’s good—’
‘Yes . . . five bloody miles. I make it home . . . thinking I was going to die . . . which, as a doctor, means there was a lot of evidence to back it up—’
‘Do you want some water?’
You nodded, your energy for speaking used up. I hurried to the kitchen, letting the tap flow, so it was cold enough for you.