Just What the Doctor Ordered

‘Yes, I do. I want full-time now.’

‘So why not stay on where you are? Personality problems?’

Not until I met you, she wanted to say, but bit her tongue. ‘I don’t want to work in an inner-city practice.’

‘Too much for you?’ he asked, and she sensed rather than saw the sudden shift in his attitude. Gone was the friendly smile, the mild flirting, and she felt oddly threatened.

‘I thought the country air and the simpler lifestyle would benefit my son. He’s just started school, and frankly I’m not happy about it. I thought a country school would suit him better.’

The atmosphere chilled even further. ‘Son?’

‘Dr Harris has a son of five,’ Dr Glover put in. ‘Stephen, isn’t it?’ His smile was encouraging.

‘That’s right.’

‘Just the one?’ Dr Armstrong asked, and she nodded.

‘Why on earth do you want to work full-time?’ he asked, his voice deceptively lazy. ‘Wouldn’t you rather be at home tweaking the curtains and patting the cushions?’

Cathy controlled her temper with difficulty. ‘As a matter of fact I wouldn’t, but even if I would I don’t have the choice. If I want any kind of a lifestyle, I have to earn it.’

‘Ambitious, eh?’

‘No more than any other caring parent,’ she said quietly.

He eyed her dispassionately. ‘I would have thought you’d be more than happy to allow your husband to make all the pushy career moves. How does he feel about a move to the country—or do you support him, too?’

A long-ago sadness touched her gently. She was dimly aware of Dr Glover’s sharply indrawn breath, but she ignored it. ‘Not any more—Michael died three years ago. He had multiple sclerosis.’

She looked down at her hands, but not before she saw the swift shock on Dr Armstong’s face.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, and his rich, deep voice was tinged with remorse. ‘I had no idea. I haven’t really had time to study the applications.’

She lifted her eyes to his, unwilling to use her late husband as a defence against Dr Armstrong’s blistering interview technique. ‘Please—forget it. It really doesn’t matter.’

‘But it does—in many ways, in fact, I think it’s even worse than if you were married,’ he argued, and she could see now there was no light-hearted twinkle or mocking humour. He was deadly serious. ‘You’ll have no back up, no emotional support—it’s a hard life, demanding, the hours are long and antisocial, they don’t coincide with school holidays—there are endless insurmountable problems.’

‘Not entirely insurmountable,’ she corrected quietly, ‘and believe me, I am aware of the problems.’

‘What about night duty? What about the times you’ll be on duty at Christmas? What will happen to your son then?’

‘Max, I’m sure Dr Harris has considered all these points before making her application. She is, after all, facing all those very problems at the moment and apparently successfully.’ Dr Glover leant back in his chair, peering at his colleague over the rim of his specs. ‘Her references are excellent, her current practice will be extremely sorry to lose her, and I think you’re being rather harshly judgemental. She has, after all, been working in the field for some time and has a great deal to offer.’

‘She’s only been working part-time.’

‘For six years,’ Cathy replied tightly, ‘and the last six months have been full-time.’

‘Why didn’t you just buy some nice little house somewhere with the insurance money and settle down to raising your son properly?’ he asked curiously.

Cathy’s temper frayed a little further. ‘What insurance money?’ she snapped. ‘You don’t expect a young, fit man of thirty to become terminally ill! We were going to take out life policies when we bought a house—we were looking for one when he was diagnosed. One of the drawbacks of knowing you’re going to die is that you can’t very easily get life insurance!’ she finished sarcastically, and then let out her breath with a harsh sigh. It wouldn’t do to lose her temper with him, however infuriating he might be.

She tried again. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, but I can’t help feeling this has no bearing whatsoever on my application. I have domestic arrangements which take into account my hours, and my reasons for needing or wanting to work are entirely my own, beyond satsifying you that I am dedicated to my profession. Perhaps some questions along the lines of vocational training and current techniques might be more relevant, particularly where your patients are concerned!’

Dr Armstrong’s firm, full mouth clamped shut as if he was controlling himself with difficulty. Dr Glover, glancing between them, steepled his fingers and regarded her thoughtfully over the top.

Oh, lord, she thought, I’ve blown it now. He’s going to tell me I’m not suitable, and that will be it, and we’ll have to stay in Bristol and Stephen will have to go to that awful school and——

‘What do you know about gambling?’ he asked her.

‘Gambling?’ The question was so unexpected that she faltered for a second, but then she recovered her poise and drew a calming breath. ‘It can become an addiction, like alcoholism or drug-taking. The gambler finds it impossible to stop, even when losing, and the lies and secrecy and the resultant financial consequences can cause havoc in the family. Why?’

He smiled his encouragement. ‘We have a gambler on our books—I just wondered how you would deal with him.’

‘I’d read his notes before I did anything,’ she said, shooting a sharp glance at Dr Armstrong. ‘I don’t believe in making snap judgements; they are often unreliable.’

‘So you wouldn’t say you’re intuitive?’ Dr Armstrong asked, and she had the crazy feeling it was a trick question.

‘Not when there are other, more reliable methods of divining information—like reading the notes,’ she retorted, with a speaking glance at her application. He had the grace to flush slightly, and his lips curved in a parody of a smile.

‘Touché,’ he said softly.

‘So, having read the notes and established that the condition is pathological in nature and causing havoc in the family, as you so accurately put it, what would you suggest then?’ Dr Glover asked.

They discussed the psychiatric aspects of the illness and the pros and cons of various approaches for a while, then moved on to talk about the clinics run in the surgery, health-care screening and preventative medicine.

Then, while Dr Armstrong went out on a call, Dr Glover showed her round the practice premises briefly before showing her to the door.

‘We’ll be in touch, my dear,’ he said with a reassuring smile. ‘And may I apologise for my colleague? He’s inclined to be a little blunt. He also finds it rather difficult to come to terms with the idea that some women have to work for a living.’

He patted her hand, and her mouth curved automatically at the avuncular twinkle in his eye.

‘Please don’t worry,’ she assured him. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

Summoning a confident smile, she turned towards her car, just as a young lad came running up the path clutching a blood-soaked rag round his hand.

‘Martin—what’s the problem?’ Dr Glover asked.

‘Bloody band-saw—my hand slipped. It’s gone up between my fingers …’

He swayed, and Cathy grabbed him, propping him against her and wrapping her arm firmly round his waist. ‘In you come—don’t worry, we’ll soon have you sorted out,’ she reassured automatically.

She supported him into the treatment-room off the hallway, and while Dr Glover scrubbed his hands she took away the rag and replaced it with a sterile pad. ‘It’s still welling slightly, but it seems to be slowing,’ she told the other doctor.

He lifted off the pad, turned the hand this way and that and then smiled at the patient.

‘Just a few stitches and a week or so off work, and you’ll be right as rain. You were lucky, Martin.’

He swallowed. ‘Doesn’t feel all that lucky,’ he said with a weak attempt at a laugh.