The Doctor's Special Touch

Mrs Skye’s medical record was getting less and less attention. Darcy was trying hard to concentrate but it wasn’t working. ‘Maybe her furniture’s coming later.’

‘Maybe it’s not. Maybe she’s broke.’

‘She’s an adult. If she’s been working…’

‘Oh, leave it alone.’ Betty shook her head, as if in wonder that he could be so obtuse. ‘She’s a lovely girl, our Ally, and we’re going to support her every way can. And we think you should, too. Why don’t you recommend that Elsie Skye could use a little rub instead of worrying herself sick about her gout?’

‘She doesn’t need a massage.’

‘Elsie can afford it, she’s bored and she’s in pain. Have you wondered why her gout flares up so much more when her daughter’s in America? I bet our Ally could make her feel lovely.’

‘You don’t massage gout,’ he said stubbornly, and she raised her eyebrows as if he was being thick.

‘It’s only her feet that have gout. Not all of her. And as if Ally wouldn’t know not to massage something that would hurt. She’s a doctor!’

‘She’s not a doctor of medicine.’

‘How do you know?’

Darcy set Elsie’s history down on the desk with a slap. He was already running late for afternoon surgery and now he was going to be later—because he was gossiping about someone he had no interest in. ‘Because if she was a doctor of medicine we’d have that wall knocked out between the buildings in two minutes flat,’ he snapped. ‘And she’d be in here, with a queue of patients stretched almost out the door waiting to see her. As I have. Now, can we get on with it?’

‘Yes, Doctor. Certainly, Doctor,’ Betty said with a mock-serious curtsy. ‘Only will you just think about it?’

‘Will I be allowed not to?’

Her first paying customer.

Treating Gloria Kerr was pure pleasure. She’d walked in and peered around Ally’s newly painted rooms and gasped with delight.

‘Ooh, love, you have it really nice. Doris said it looked a picture and then she said why didn’t I get myself down here? I’ve been gardening for a week—the oxalis has taken over the lawn and I hate using that weedkiller stuff. I reckon it gets into the ground water. But my back…it’s killing me. If you could just give it a nice rub?’

Ally hadn’t planned on opening until tomorrow. Her grand opening—i.e. unlocking the front door and hoping someone came—was timed for nine a.m. She didn’t have the room exactly as she wanted it. But Gloria looked at her with eyes that were big with hope; and Ally had exactly sixty-five cents left in her purse and she really fancied dinner.

So she chatted to Gloria as she warmed the towels, and then asked Gloria to choose her preferred oils. She chose sandalwood for relaxation. Then she spent an hour giving the lady the best rub she knew how to administer.

She was carefully gentle. Gloria was in her late sixties. She had knots of osteoarthritis, where massage could inflame a joint and cause more problems. She had deep varicose veins that had to be avoided. But Ally’s hands moved skilfully, patiently, carefully kneading knotted muscles and easing an aching neck and tired, workworn hands.

‘Your fingers are wonderful,’ Gloria whispered as finally Ally lay warm towels back over Gloria’s body, rested her hands on her back for a moment as a final, lingering contact and then stood back from the table. ‘Magic. Oh, my dear, my hands are so warm and soft. You make me feel amazing.’

Part of it was the contact, Ally thought. Gloria Kerr was Doris’s sister. Gloria’s husband had died just before Ally had left town. Her only son, Bill, was a rough-diamond fisherman who maybe gave his mum a peck on the cheek for Mother’s Day and for her birthday. If she was lucky. That was the only human touch she was likely to get.

Massage wasn’t a substitute for loving human contact, Ally thought, but it certainly helped. She’d warmed and mobilised Gloria’s aching joints. She’d given her time out from her loneliness and she’d listened as Gloria had filled her in on the last seventeen years of town life.

Gloria was happy. She’d sleep much easier tonight because of her massage, and Ally accepted her fee knowing she’d given good service.

It was a start, she thought with satisfaction as she stood on the doorstep and watched Gloria walk off happily down the street. She’d helped.

And best of all she’d been paid. She could eat!

‘You know that Gloria has arthritis?’

She whirled to find Darcy Rochester watching her from the front step of his rooms. He looked as if he was about to go out on a house call. Every inch the doctor, he was carrying a smart black doctor’s bag and he was headed in the direction of his capacious Mercedes Benz parked out on the street.

A brand-new Mercedes, she thought bitterly. As opposed to her ancient rust-bucket of a panel van which looked almost ludicrous beside it.

‘Do you have to keep scaring me?’ Ally demanded, and he raised an eyebrow as if such a notion was ludicrous.

‘What, you don’t have a spare bucket of paint to throw at me this time?’

‘I wish,’ she muttered darkly. ‘And, yes, I do know Gloria has arthritis.’

‘So maybe massage isn’t appropriate.’

‘Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You know your business and I know mine,’ she said through gritted teeth. She was almost deliriously happy to be here again—in this town, setting up her own business—but this man was threatening to burst her fragile bubble of contentment. ‘I know what I’m about,’ she said, trying to moderate her voice a little. ‘I understand that massaging inflammatory joints can cause damage, and I was extremely careful not to do anything of the kind. I helped.’

‘She’s on medication. If you’ve interfered—’

What was it with this man?

‘I did not,’ she said, again through gritted teeth, ‘interfere with Gloria’s medication in any way, shape or form. I did not imply that she’d be better off taking wart of hog, collected at midnight from the local cemetery in ritualistic sacrifice, than she is taking your boring old anti-inflammatories. I did take a medical history—I’d be stupid not to—but she’s your patient, and aside from rubbing her down with a little sandalwood oil…’

‘Sandalwood’s expensive.’

‘So’s a Mercedes,’ she snapped. ‘I charge to cover my expenses. The sandalwood costs me maybe a dollar. I factor it into my accounts. How much do you charge to cover the cost of running your Mercedes?’

Yikes. That was way out of line. She couldn’t believe she’d just said it. She wasn’t normally this rude—this abrupt. What was it about this man that got under her skin?

But he stood on the doorstep of the place where her grandpa used to practise medicine, and his eyes condemned her.

‘Um…we seem to be getting off on the wrong foot,’ he said, and she blinked.

‘We do indeed.’

‘I’m sure you’re a fine massage therapist.’

‘And I’m sure you’re a fine doctor.’ Her tone was wary.

‘If you’d just like to talk to me about my patients before you treat them.’

‘And your patients would be…who? The whole town?’

‘I guess.’

‘You’d like me to ask permission to touch anyone who comes near me?’