The Country Doctor: Captivating tales from a young GP's case notes

by Jean McConnell

  Linda suddenly saw another aspect to selfless devotion.

  ‘’Course she’d do anything in the world for us, you know,’ he said. ‘She’s a wonderful person.’ And his eye twitched violently. ‘We can’t hurt her feelings.’

  That’s the trouble, thought Linda. Two good-natured people being smothered with love by a third! It annoyed Linda to think she had jumped so readily to conclusions about the situation. But she was even more disturbed by a piece of news that Bill Mullett let forth before he went. It seemed that the sewing given to Miss Andrews had not been heard of since and when they had called to ask after it, Stuart Andrews had answered the door and their enquiries unsatisfactorily and with rudeness. Nothing had been seen of Miss Andrews for some time.

  Linda was in a quandary. She felt troubled, but as she had received no call to attend, could do nothing officially. Perhaps Miss Andrews had gone away for a while.

  The matter went out of Linda’s mind until surgery when Stuart Andrews limped in to see her and asked for a bottle of tonic for his sister.

  ‘She’s run down, I imagine. She doesn’t seem to want to get up,’ he said resentfully.

  ‘I’ll come and see her as soon as I’ve finished surgery.’

  ‘That’s not necessary. Just a bottle of tonic ‒’

  ‘How will I know what to put in it, unless I know what’s pulling her down?’ asked Linda, with commendable patience.

  He agreed reluctantly. Linda had the feeling he wouldn’t have come at all if there’d been anyone else to get his meals.

  She got a shock when she saw Mary Andrews. The woman was clearly very ill. Her skin hung yellow and loose over her bones and her eyes were sunk in dark shadows. She smiled, but so wearily that Linda felt an instinctive pang. At last, in response to Linda’s questions she admitted she had been in pain for some time.

  ‘Why didn’t you come to see me?’ asked Linda, almost angrily. But she knew the reason.

  Linda spoke to Stuart Andrews. ‘Your sister will have to go to hospital.’

  ‘How long for?’ queried Stuart irritably.

  ‘Mr Andrews,’ said Linda, ‘your sister is extremely ill. Weren’t you aware she was deteriorating like this?’

  The man didn’t answer, and Linda went on.

  ‘I do not know how long she will be in hospital. It is almost certain she will need an operation and I want you to understand that I am gravely concerned about her.’ Somehow she had to impress on this self-centred man that his sister’s condition was serious.

  Her words had some effect for he looked suddenly alarmed and when he spoke his voice had lost some of its self-pitying whine. He began asking questions, mostly concerned with the running of the house in Mary’s absence. Patiently his sister acquainted him with the necessary details.

  Meantime, Linda went next door to telephone for an ambulance and when she returned Stuart was busy in the study and Miss Andrews alone in her room. She beckoned Linda close and indicated that she should shut the door.

  ‘Would you do something for me, Doctor? Telephone the solicitors and ask them to come and see me. I’ve never made a Will you see, and I think I should.’

  Linda did not argue.

  ‘Certainly,’ she said briskly, ‘that’ll be no trouble.’

  ‘I want to leave him the house. I want there to be no mistake this time. It must be legal. I offered to give it to him in the past you know, but he’d never hear of it.’

  Linda telephoned the firm of solicitors when she got back to surgery, then she sought out Doctor Cooper. She knew he would be upset by the news about Miss Andrews but she was unprepared for Peter’s reaction.

  She found the two men at lunch. Linda had not exaggerated her concern about Mary Andrews, and she told John Cooper her fears. He rose from the table, grim-faced, and left the room without a word. His son watched him go, then turned on Linda.

  ‘Why was she allowed to get to this state?’

  ‘I was never called before.’

  ‘Surely you had some indication she was ill. In a village as small as this ‒’

  ‘Yes, I did suspect at one time, but how could I know? And anyway I couldn’t barge in if I wasn’t sent for.’

  ‘There are ways of doing these things, you know that! If she had been my father’s patient ‒ neither he nor the old partner have ever bothered over much with the niceties of etiquette. They just saw when they were needed.’

  Linda fully realised his words were prompted by a personal anguish about Miss Andrews, but she was still stung by what she considered was their injustice.

  ‘I quite realise I’ve a lot to learn as a General Practitioner, Peter, but the sort of intuition you mean surely comes from long acquaintance with people, and don’t forget I’ve not been here that long! And wasn’t it you who warned me about interfering when I wasn’t wanted.’

  ‘That was in personal matters ‒ not medical ones!’

  ‘I’m quite prepared to believe you’d make a better job of it here than me, because you already know a lot of the locals personally ‒ but for no other reason! But when you do join your father, you may have to re-think your idea of a simple country doctor with a finger on everybody’s pulse. This Practice is growing. That new industrial estate is already affecting things. It’ll not be all as you imagine it!’

  Linda walked out. She felt very badly about Miss Andrews and to have it implied that she might have in some way neglected her duty was painful.

  Soon afterwards, she overheard Peter arranging to send flowers to Miss Andrews and realised he and his father knew and cared for her more than she’d appreciated. So that when Peter sought her out and offered her an apology for his words, she accepted it at once and offered him her own.

  ‘Let’s have a drink together before I have to go back to London.’

  ‘I’d like that, Peter.’

  They drove out to a little pub and sat cosily in a corner, enjoying each other’s company as before. And later they took a lingering farewell in Linda’s flat ‒ and discovered more about each other. Linda felt happy and at ease again.

  Peter rose to leave at last.

  ‘I’ll be seeing you!’ he said, ruffling her hair.

  ‘When?’ Despite all her good intentions the word came out.

  ‘Not sure. I’m going skiing.’

  Linda instantly had a vision of long-limbed Nursing Sisters, in elegant ski-gear, skilfully descending the sun-kissed snow-slopes in hot pursuit of Peter; or snuggled up in chummy groups by log-fires quaffing gluwein.

  ‘I’m in a racing team,’ he added, as if reading her thoughts.

  The vision changed immediately to a horrifying high ski-jump with Peter hurtling down it, hitting a hidden rock, turning a somersault, limbs twisted, broken …

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ said Linda, anxiously.

  ‘Thank you for that. I will.’

  Miss Andrews had her operation, but the surgeon made no bones about the fact that he considered he had been called too late.

  When Linda drove in to the hospital a day or two later John Cooper asked to go with her as he wanted to visit his friend personally.

  On the journey he told Linda more of Mary Andrews’ history. Her mother had brought her up to believe that her brother was someone special, so that when the old lady died Mary did not question that she should go on attending to the wants of this indulged man. He had never done a hand’s turn of work and they had scraped along on a tiny allowance he had and what money Mary could earn by sewing for friends and neighbours.

  ‘She sacrificed her life entirely to that wretched man,’ finished John Cooper, ‘and she was a sweet girl, and turned down several offers of marriage.’

  He lapsed into silence and Linda realised that John Cooper’s must have been one of them. He didn’t speak again but spent the rest of the drive lost in thought.

  The Ward Sister informed them that Miss Andrews was comfortable and that her solicitor was at the moment with her, so they waited and were fortified wit
h mugs of tea that reminded Linda sharply of the hospital days that seemed far behind her now.

  Soon the solicitor came out of the little side ward and joined them. He looked perplexed.

  ‘Excuse me, Sister,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid Miss Andrews must be a little delirious.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said the startled Sister. ‘Weak perhaps, but she was certainly all right just now.’

  ‘Well she speaks plainly enough, but it’s very curious, she’s trying to bequeath the house to her brother.’

  ‘But that’s right,’ interjected Linda. ‘I know she wants to do so very much.’

  The solicitor frowned. ‘But she must surely know,’ he said. ‘That house has been the property of her brother since their mother died nearly forty years ago.’

  The two doctors stared at each other, both understanding very well what Stuart Andrews had done. By pretending the house had been left to her instead of him as promised, he had laden her with such a sense of obligation and guilt that he had gained himself a lifelong slave.

  When Linda went in to see Miss Andrews she knew at once that the woman also knew the truth at last. Her eyes had an expression of pain, but there was still no bitterness, and even now she tried to find excuses for her brother’s cruelty.

  ‘He was so frightened of being left alone,’ she whispered. ‘He was always afraid of being alone.’ She sighed: ‘What will he do now?’

  John Cooper stayed behind with Miss Andrews when Linda left, saying he would get a taxi later. They both knew it was unlikely Miss Andrews would recover and Linda undertook to have a word with Stuart Andrews to prepare him.

  That Doctor Cooper thought the man a monster, she knew, but as she drove swiftly back towards Stoke Dabenham, Linda found herself considering what motives could make a person bind another to them in such a way. What desperate fear of loneliness? Or had it been some unrecognised attachment to Mary herself. Had it been the fear of losing her, she having perhaps taken his mother’s place in his mind, that caused him to secure her to him with such subtle cunning. Either way it was the result of such deep-seated need that Linda felt it possible to pity the man.

  She reached the village and drew up outside the Andrews’ house. She noticed the ledges of the panels and fluted moulding round the door were dusty, and the dolphin no longer shone.

  At last her knocking was answered.

  Stuart Andrews opened the door and Linda stepped into the hall. She could see through into Mary Andrews’ sewing room and noticed a figure there busy with string and brown paper. It was Mrs Piggot. She looked up and nodded at Linda.

  ‘Good afternoon, Doctor. I’m just collecting up Muriel’s loose covers. Poor Miss Andrews never got them done. I suppose I’ll have to do them now.’

  ‘I’ve just come from the hospital, Mr Andrews,’ said Linda.

  ‘How is she?’ asked Stuart Andrews. ‘I shall try to get in to see her this evening.’

  Linda turned and walked into the sitting room and he followed; then had the grace to indicate that they should sit.

  He listened silently as Linda explained considerately but positively the nature of Mary Andrews’ illness and the possibility that she could not get better. She did not dwell on the fact of matters having all been left too late since it could not help. Her purpose now was to soften a blow which was to be almost a certainty.

  Stuart Andrews took in the information gravely. He looked quite desolate. Finally he spoke.

  ‘But what will I do?’

  Linda looked into the moist self-pitying eyes and all the compassion drained out of her.

  She rose.

  He trailed her into the hall, all the while talking on about how difficult it was going to be for him to run the house by himself, how expensive it was to have any maintenance done on a place of that nature, and the impossibility of him tackling the everyday domestic matters of cleaning and cooking, to which he had never been accustomed or had any experience.

  Mrs Piggot emerged from the sewing room with her load of material and stood wide-eyed as she listened to Andrews pouring out his troubles.

  Linda saw her face suffused with a warm glow of interest at the prospect of this completely dependent human being in such desperate need of unlimited attention.

  ‘Oh, Mr Andrews,’ she said sympathetically, ‘if there’s any little thing I can do for you.’

  Linda left them deep in earnest conversation. She drove quietly through the village, through the gates of the big house and round to the yard.

  Perhaps out of this sorrowful business one tiny advantage might come. If Mrs Piggot devoted some of her well-intentioned energies towards Stuart Andrews’ welfare, it might relieve the weight on the Mulletts’ backs a bit.

  Linda lit the fire in her flat and sat down in front of it, thinking of Mary Andrews and the circumstance that had ordered the pattern of her life.

  Much later she heard John Cooper arrive back. She looked from the window. A friend had brought him home and was parking down in the yard.

  She saw the two men get out of the car and go in through the back entrance of the big house. The doctor turned under the light and as he shut the glass door, Linda saw his shoulders stooped in an attitude of grief.

  Chapter Six

  A WOMAN OF PARTS

  As Linda stepped into the bath for the second time the telephone rang again. Wrapping the damp towel round herself once more she hurried to answer it. It was Mrs Perry from the surgery.

  ‘Doctor Ford?’

  Who else, thought Linda.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you again, but another call has just come through. From Yelchester Hall ‒ the Boys’ School, you know.’

  Linda adjusted the towel and took up a pencil.

  ‘All right, Mrs Perry, I’m taking a note.’

  ‘Mrs Beale, one of the housemasters’ wives, was asking whether Doctor Cooper was going to call today to see her husband.’

  ‘Did you tell her Doctor Cooper was away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Mr Beale?’

  ‘He’s recovering from a pneumothorax, Doctor.’

  ‘I see. All right, I’ll call in later on. Thank you, Mrs Perry.’

  Linda trailed back to the bathroom. Her fragrant bubble bath lay before her chilled and scummy. She gave it best, towelled herself briskly dry and consoled herself by putting on her new suit.

  John Cooper was the school doctor for Yelchester Hall, and Linda had never had occasion to pay it a call herself. Now she turned the M.G. in at the high gates and looked about for directions. Mrs Perry had said that the Beales were in Feldon House.

  She stopped a small boy and he pointed out a red brick building across the quadrangle. As Linda drew up, four more boys in regulation flannel converged on the car and began examining it with critical interest.

  In the hall, Linda hesitated, caught like a signpost at a crossroads of bustling students. Somewhere a bell was ringing. Purposeful figures in varying sizes hurried past, down passages and through doors and away. Suddenly the hall was deserted and Linda began looking about for some means of making her presence known. I’d better not ring a bell, she thought, or they’ll all pop out again.

  Then a young man appeared wearing an academic gown, caught sight of her, and came forward smiling. He had a handsome, sensitive face and he regarded Linda with interest.

  ‘I’m Henderson,’ he said, ‘can I help you?’

  He’s not much older than his charges, thought Linda. She explained that she was temporarily in place of Doctor Cooper and he led the way upstairs with a sideways look that indicated plainly he thought the substitution a nice change.

  As they reached the landing, a woman came out of one of the doors. She was pretty with soft brown hair piled romantically on top of her head, and wisps escaping about her face. When she saw them she stopped and frowned at Henderson.

  Very quickly, the young man introduced Linda.

  ‘The doctor?’ said the woman in some sur
prise, but her brow at once cleared and she came forward with a welcoming smile.

  ‘I’m Mrs Beale. Do come through to the study.’

  With a single, warm look back at Henderson, she led the way down a corridor. Linda followed her and Henderson leapt away downstairs to his duties.

  Mrs Beale showed Linda into a dark panelled room and graciously presented her husband, who was sitting in a winged armchair with a rug wrapped round his knees. Henry Beale was some years older than his wife, who fluttered round him adjusting cushions at his back, an attention he obviously found irritating for he pushed her hands away and suggested she should leave the room in a tone of voice that was barely polite.

  Mrs Beale planted a fond kiss on his brow and floated away, having opened the neck of his shirt.

  The Housemaster was making a good recovery but being a man deeply involved in his work he was impatient with his enforced idleness. He was desperately keen to take up full control of his House again and escape from the well-meant care of his wife which he did not hesitate to announce he found unendurable.

  Linda was able to cheer him by the news that he would probably be active in a very short while, and the examination being at end, he rang a bell. Mrs Beale at once appeared, to accompany Linda out. She seemed overjoyed at the prospect of her husband being back to normal before long, and Linda hastened to warn her that Mr Beale’s condition still called for great care as the lungs were very vulnerable.

  ‘Don’t worry, Doctor,’ said Mrs Beale earnestly, ‘he won’t be allowed to do anything foolish.’ She frowned. ‘Somehow I’ll stop him. Oh, by the way, while you’re here, Doctor,’ she added, ‘would you just take a look at young Jilkes. He came out in a rash this morning. I think it’s ‒’ She faltered, losing confidence. ‘Well, I’m not sure.’