The Country Doctor's Choice Read online

  Derek Bolt frowned. ‘I dare say she would if you asked her, but be careful. She’s a bit – er, neurotic, and inclined to get overemotional.’

  ‘Really? She always seems as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.’

  Ah, but you don’t know her as I do, thought the vicar, and continued, ‘There are those two stalwarts, Mrs Maynard and her friend Mrs Whittaker – and Phyllis’s daughter Jennifer, what’s her name, Gifford. She’d probably join with her mother, and if her husband’s interested—’

  ‘Poor Phyllis Maynard won’t be up to it yet, though it might be good for her.’

  ‘Give her time,’ said the vicar. ‘What about the music? Will you use the organ?’

  ‘No, the Sunday-school piano will do fine.’

  ‘It seems like a lot of extra work for you, Jeremy, you’ll have to give up two evenings a week. Won’t the family object?’

  ‘Shouldn’t imagine so. I’m not that necessary at home these days.’

  ‘How are they all? Didn’t your son get a job at the printworks?’

  ‘Yes, and daughter Denise got a job at the coal merchant’s, and they’ve both got their P45 cards.’

  ‘Oh.’ Derek heard the warning note not to enquire further. ‘Well, you have my blessing to go ahead with your search for singers. You can put a bit in the newsletter and on the noticeboard. I’ll say a bit from the pulpit if you like.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, Derek, that’d be great.’

  Driving home, Jeremy North smiled to himself. Hooray! Two evenings a week away from the chaos, teaching willing amateurs to sing, not that Iris will need much teaching, she’s a natural. Nice little thing, must be thirty-something, wonder where she lives and with whom?

  He turned into the drive of the large detached house with lighted windows gleaming through the October dusk: a house that had once been a happy family home.

  ‘Ah, Shelagh my dear, how are you? Sit down, sit down,’ invited Mr Kydd, who usually addressed her as Dr Hammond, but this was an informal interview. He waved her towards a comfortable armchair in his office, and smiled in a fatherly way.

  ‘It’s good of you to see me, sir—’ she began, conscious of his sharp though kindly eyes peering over the top of his gold-rimmed half-moons.

  ‘Not at all, my dear. I’ve thinking that we ought to have a little chat. Your work for the past six months has been quite splendid. I’ve been impressed by the way you have developed your skills, and I’d like to keep you on the team – but your next step should be to find a registrarship for a couple of years. I haven’t in fact got a vacancy until next year, but in any case you should go somewhere else now, to widen your experience – see how they do things in Birmingham or Liverpool!’ He beamed at her. ‘I’d be delighted to give you an excellent reference, you know that.’

  Shelagh hesitated. ‘Thank you, sir, I appreciate that, but I have a particular reason for wanting to stay in Everham just now.’

  The consultant frowned. ‘Oh, you women! People accuse me of male chauvinism, but it’s not my fault that so few women reach the top of our profession – you throw your careers away! Time enough to settle yourself in one place when you’ve got a husband and family to look after! I’m a firm believer that motherhood should take precedence over all other careers, and that rearing the next generation is of top priority – but you’re young, intelligent and free, my dear girl. You’ve plenty of opportunity to advance yourself before you get tied down with a family. Why on earth should you stagnate in Everham just because some wretched man has decided to dig himself in and study for a fellowship, no doubt with an eye to stepping into Mr Fielding’s shoes!’

  Shelagh squirmed with embarrassment at his bluntness and accuracy.

  ‘I have to advise you to move on, Shelagh,’ he continued. ‘Of course you’re welcome to stay here if you really wish it, but you should go and find out some of these new ideas, like electric foetal monitoring with a sensor connected to the woman’s abdomen – they’re trying them out in some of the bigger medical training hospitals. Let your man wait a year or two, and he might appreciate you more!’

  Furious with herself for blushing crimson, Shelagh said, ‘It isn’t only because of – of Dr Sykes, sir. There is another consideration.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s my mother, sir. I’m not too happy about her. She’s a widow and we live in Everham so that I can keep an eye on her, which is convenient.’

  ‘Go on. Why aren’t you happy about her?’

  ‘I suspect it’s your – our department, sir. She’s had a slight prolapse for years, and a tiresome discharge. I noticed by chance a smear of blood in the toilet the other day—’

  ‘Good God, woman! – and you call yourself a doctor?’ he said with untypical vehemence. ‘You’ve let your mother suffer for years, when all you had to do was bring her to my gynae clinic. I find it hard to believe, Shelagh.’

  She closed her eyes momentarily, and put a hand up to cover her face. ‘It’s not that simple, Mr Kydd. You don’t know her. She comes from an old-fashioned backwater in Donegal, I’m her only child, and we’ve never spoken of – of intimate matters. She can be very stubborn, and won’t consult anybody but her old GP, and I suspect she doesn’t even tell him everything. I think she might have a cervical erosion, in which case—’

  ‘How old is your mother?’ he interrupted.

  ‘Nearly fifty-one, sir.’

  ‘Now, listen to me, Shelagh. You are to bring Mrs Hammond to my gynae clinic at nine on Monday morning without fail – no, make it a quarter to, before we start – is that quite clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’ Her eyes filled with helpless, shameful tears at his confirmation of her own suspicions; post-menopausal bleeding could mean uterine cancer.

  ‘Whatever must you think of me?’ she faltered.

  ‘Oh, my dear, I understand, perhaps better than you think,’ he said with a sigh of regret for some private memory. ‘We don’t always want to face facts when dealing with our own families, though we’re quick to make pronouncements on strangers. I’ll see her on Monday, and we’ll get to the root of the trouble, whatever it is.’

  ‘I’m very grateful to you, Mr Kydd,’ she said simply.

  ‘Glad to be of help, my dear. Now, as you want to stay on as houseman on obs and gynae, I’ll get another contract drawn up for you with the management committee for a further six months. There’s just one thing I should point out to you, Shelagh.’ Was that a gleam of mischief behind the half-moons? ‘You’ll be senior houseman this time, and your junior will be Dr McDowall, who’s senior to you in all other respects. An unusual situation, as you’ll agree.’

  ‘Dr McDowall?’ Shelagh exclaimed in astonishment. ‘But how – I mean he’s a medical registrar!’

  ‘Not permanently. He plans to go into general practice eventually, and feels he needs to recap on obs and gynae – so he’s taking demotion for six months as a houseman. Very good man in his field, and will be an asset on the team, to deal with our diabetics and asthmas and epileptics – oh, and that reminds me, I intend to do a caesarean section on our Mrs Blake next week. It’s one of those difficult questions, a choice of two evils. Would the baby stand a better chance inside its mother, or in the Special Care Baby Unit? After a discussion with McDowall, I’ve come down on the side of the latter. Do you agree?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I most certainly do,’ she said, getting up from her chair and shaking the hand he held out to her.

  ‘Good luck, my dear. Actually, I think our friend McDowall could learn a lot from you. And I’ll see you in Outpatients with Mrs Hammond on Monday.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘It’s early days as yet, Phyllis,’ said Mary Whittaker. ‘Up to about six months you’re allowed to break down and weep in the supermarket, but after that you have to buck up, or you become a bit of a bore. I know, I’ve been through it.’

  Phyllis Maynard, who remembered when Tom Whittaker, a friend of Ben’s on the town council, had died, appreciated
her friend’s frankness, but did not yet feel ready to face the world.

  ‘People are very kind, Mary, and I get asked to coffee mornings and bring-and-buy sales, but to be quite honest I’m always tired, and I find company even lonelier than solitude.’

  ‘Ah, you poor dear, take it from me, you will find that it starts to get better,’ said Mary. ‘Look, have you heard about this new Christmas choir that Jeremy North’s getting together? He’s such a nice, humorous man, isn’t he, and so full of enthusiasm – why don’t we both join, it will be good for us, and brighten up the winter evenings.’

  ‘I’m dreading Christmas, Mary.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, Christmas will come and go like it always does, and in the New Year you’ll start to look ahead again. Come on, let’s go and have a coffee at Edward’s.’

  Getting her mother to the clinic was not easy, and Shelagh needed all her forbearance. Bridget refused to hurry over breakfast, having resisted her daughter’s help in producing an early morning specimen of urine into a plastic jug which Shelagh then poured into a small sterile labelled container. She then refused help in getting dressed in her clean, lavender-scented underwear – Directoire knickers and lisle stockings held up by suspenders dangling from a belt beneath her long woollen vest, and a petticoat. She must be the only woman in Everham who still wears such outdated undies, thought Shelagh; whoever would know that we’re into the 1960s? She wondered where Bridget would shop when the old-fashioned ladies’ outfitters in North Camp finally closed its Edwardian doors. When at last she helped her mother into the car, the two were scarcely on speaking terms, although Shelagh did her best to be patient.

  The outpatients department was at the front of the building, and consisted of a series of examination rooms with a large waiting area in the middle. Shelagh was thankful for Bridget’s early appointment, but Mr Kydd had not yet arrived. Sister Oates was there beside his consulting room, and invited them to sit down in the front row, though Shelagh felt self-conscious among the other early patients attending the gynae clinic.

  ‘Dr Hammond!’ said a voice close to them, ‘and waiting to see Mr Kydd? Nothing serious, I hope?’

  Dr McDowall in a pristine white coat stood before them, and Shelagh burnt with embarrassment.

  ‘My mother is waiting to see Mr Kydd,’ she said shortly, and before he could reply, Bridget Hammond broke in with, ‘Who’s this one, then? Is he the one who’s goin’ to meddle wid me?’

  ‘No, Mother, this is somebody quite different. Mr Kydd will be here in a minute.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Hammond,’ said McDowall politely, holding out his hand which Bridget pointedly refused to shake. ‘You’ll like Mr Kydd, he’s—’

  ‘Ye can save the blarney, Dr Whoever-ye-are, I’m here against me own wishes entirely,’ she interrupted. ‘All I want is to get out o’ this place!’

  He glanced at Shelagh. ‘Look, let me get you both a cup of tea from the WRVS stand over there.’

  To Shelagh’s relief she saw Mr Kydd arrive and go into his examination room. Sister Oates beckoned to them.

  ‘Come on, Mother, we’re going in to see Mr Kydd now, so if you’ll excuse us, Dr McDowall—’

  But Bridget objected strongly to Shelagh’s presence at the consultation. ‘Holy Mother o’ God, I won’t have you standin’ there watchin’ me – your own mother, it’s not decent! This tidy little body can come in,’ she added, indicating Sister Oates who gave Shelagh an apologetic look.

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to wait, Dr Hammond.’

  McDowall turned down the corners of his mouth in a sympathetic grimace. ‘Let’s have that cup of tea now, shall we?’

  ‘No, thank you, Dr McDowall, I’ll wait for my mother. I’m sorry for the way she spoke to you, but I’m sure you have other duties to attend to. Good morning.’

  He raised his eyebrows, shrugged and walked away.

  It was dark when the Reverend Derek Bolt drove into his garage, not sorry to be done with the day’s business. The meeting of the diocesan clergy had been dominated by the church’s dire financial straits, and the best that they could hope for was that their Christmas Fairs or Fayres would bring in a thousand or two from the stalls, raffles, tombola, various competitions and for the children a visit to Santa in his grotto; Derek hoped that a better volunteer than old Mr Wetherby would come forward, willing to put on the red coat, white moustache and beard. With Daphne being a little temperamental at present with menopausal moods, he could not rely on her to bake and decorate the usual large Christmas cake for the raffle; perhaps Mrs Coulter would oblige, or Miss Oates – he couldn’t ask Mrs Maynard, though in fact it might be good for her, give her something to do …

  The light in the kitchen window beckoned invitingly. He pulled down the overhead garage door, and was about to lock it when – oh, heck. There was a tug at his arm and a breathless, urgent voice in his ear.

  ‘Mr Bolt – Derek – will you listen, just for a minute, for the love of God!’

  It was Beryl Johnson, again. He swung round, but her hand still clutched his arm. He took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Now, Miss Johnson, you really must not – er – waylay me in this way.’

  ‘You showed me kindness, you showed me pity at my mother’s funeral. Can’t you please show it to me again? Don’t send me away, please!’ Her voice rose, and he feared they might be overheard in the kitchen. He shook her hand off his arm.

  ‘Stop this, Miss Johnson, stop it at once, do you hear? I only meant to comfort you at Mrs Johnson’s funeral, nothing more. I’m a happily married man, and you must stop this now.’

  ‘Only if you promise to come and see me, listen to me—’

  ‘Of course I can’t come to your house, you know that.’

  ‘But you visited Mrs Maynard yesterday, I saw you. You stayed there half an hour.’

  ‘You’ve been following me again. It’s got to stop, I tell you.’

  ‘Then let me meet you in the church, just for ten minutes, just to talk, only for a few minutes, it’s not asking much, Derek!’

  ‘Pull yourself together, Miss Johnson,’ he said firmly. ‘Look, I know you’ve suffered at losing your mother, but that was some weeks ago, and it’s time to move on. Rejoin the land of the living, for heaven’s sake.’

  She stood there beside him in the dark, crying quietly, and he felt at a loss. She lived alone in the semi she had shared with old Mrs Johnson, and her only near relative, a brother, lived in Canada. He had come over for the funeral and to help Beryl sort out the various formalities that surround a death in the family, and had returned to Ontario. At the funeral Derek Bolt had put an arm around her and held her head against his chest for a moment, a public gesture seen by all present; and this is where that spontaneous moment of sympathy had led. He admitted to himself that he had a certain responsibility towards Beryl Johnson who was, after all, in his spiritual care by the nature of his office. And Christ would have been gentle with her. Poor woman, he thought. Poor, unhappy woman.

  ‘I do feel for you, my dear—’

  She stopped crying, and held her breath. He had called her his dear. His dear.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Derek, thank you, God bless you, bless you!’

  ‘Sssh! You must go home now.’

  There was a pause, and she whispered, ‘All right, as long as I know that you feel for me just a little, I’ll do as you say.’

  ‘Good girl.’ It seemed the right thing to say, though she was over fifty. She was also in an emotional state, it was dark, and she had about a mile to walk, and two main roads to cross. Suppose a car or bus …

  ‘I’ll get the car out again and run you home. Only you must never do this again, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll try. Thank you, Der—Mr Bolt,’ she whispered.

  He opened the garage, backed the car out, and she got in. He reminded her to fasten her safety belt, then drove her across Everham, pulling up outside the unlit semi in Angel Close. He reminded her to unfasten the belt, and leant acro
ss to open the passenger door. He did not get out to help her, but stayed where he was, with the engine running. Before she got out, she faced him.

  ‘Let me kiss you.’

  He let her kiss his cheek while he sat still as a statue, looking straight ahead.

  ‘Good night, Miss Johnson.’

  She got out of the car and walked slowly to her front door. He watched her unlock it and disappear inside. A light went on in the hall. He reproached himself for not once mentioning prayer; he should have told her to pray about her situation. And so should he.

  ‘What was going on out there, Derek?’ asked Daphne when he went in through the kitchen door. ‘I heard you arrive and put the car away, but then you took it out again, said something to somebody and drove off. What happened?’

  ‘Yes. Remembered I was out of—out of—’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want me to know. I’m used to being the vicar’s wife, the last person to be told anything.’

  Poor Daphne, he thought guiltily. There were so many confidential matters that people told him, which he was not free to tell her or anybody. He should have just said that he’d had an urgent call and dealt with it as well as he could, as had happened on previous occasions. So why try to lie to her? He felt uneasily ashamed, and tried to apologise.

  ‘You’re wonderful, Daphne, being married to a “man of the cloth”, and having to put up with his round-the-clock duties!’ he said, kissing her and patting her bottom. She made no reply except to say that his supper was in the oven, and she hoped it was not too dry.

  Shelagh managed to keep her emotion under control when Mr Kydd invited her into his office, indicated a chair and offered her coffee and biscuits. Such largesse warned her of unwelcome news.

  ‘I see what you mean, Shelagh, your mother’s quite a character, isn’t she? Not the easiest patient to deal with! It must have been difficult to persuade her to come to my clinic, and I have to congratulate you on achieving it!’