“Give it time,” he says with an air of defeat.
“Look, if you think that I’ll be telling the world and its mother about your medical… condition, I can assure you that I’m a professional. I’ve taken an oath.”
“What I’m actually saying is that it’s a relief to be around someone who doesn’t care about who I am.”
Could the man be any more self-obsessed?
25
The storm rattles Des’s window panes and the deluge pounds his roof. Even the draughts have draughts. A gust hits the house. He glances up from his grandson’s biology book, open on the table in front of them, wondering how many tiles he has just lost. Beside him, Jack looks towards the window, then at him.
“Will Mum be alright, out on the island?”
“Oh, she will, yeah,” Des assures him calmly. “Cooke’s is sheltered from the wind. She’ll be tucked in there now, lovely and cosy.” Des goes back to the human heart. “Right, now, here’s a handy way of remembering the blood flow. Always bear in mind that the wall between the two sides of the heart keeps the oxygenated blood separate from the de-oxygenated. That’s the first place to start.” Des points to the septum dividing the heart.
“So, the blood flows into the heart, here, from all over the body, gagging for oxygen.” Des points to the right atrium, the chamber at the top right where the blood flows in. “Then, when the heart beats, it’s forced down here into the right ventricle where it’s lovely and muscly. Then, another beat and it’s pumped to the lungs for oxygen.” He follows the blood flow with his pen. “Then it’s back to the heart, up here, in the left atrium. Then down to the muscly left ventricle then out all over the body again to deliver the oxygen. Pure magic!”
Des has always thought the body a miracle of nature, all its different systems working away together in silent harmony. Everyone just goes around, doing their thing, oblivious to all that’s happening inside.
“Draw it. That’ll help you remember.” Des is loving this time with Jack, which began by trying to distract him from the storm. (Holly is so obsessed with the dog, she could be on the Ark and not know it.) Des loves seeing the wonder ignite in his grandson’s face and hearing his many questions. The boy has smarts. Des remembers sitting with Grace like this at the very same table. He knew from her curiosity and fascination that, one day, she’d follow in his footsteps, though he never encouraged, never hinted, never asked. He let her find her own way. There’s something very special about having passed the baton to her. There’s something equally special about being here with his grandchildren. He hopes that he’s making some small difference. He may have retired but he’s not completely useless yet.
In front of the fire, Holly is brushing Benji.
“You’re so gorgeous. And brave. And loyal. And patient,” she says, as she drags her hairbrush slowly through his coat. She’s not worried about the brush; she can buy another one tomorrow or just borrow her mum’s. There are more important things than hair.
Benji’s eyes are closing as the brush glides through his fur.
Holly takes it as a sign that he’s relaxing. He must be so relieved to be out of the storm.
“We’ll go back tomorrow to visit her,” she says. “We’ll go back every day.”
Benji lifts his head and looks at her. It’s as if he is saying, “Thank you.”
All over Torc island, the lights go out. In Cooke’s, conversation stops. By the light of the fire, Grace finds her phone and swipes up to turn on her torch. Other phones start to light up the tiny restaurant like fireflies. A few people flick cigarette lighters and hold them to the sky, reminding Grace of the Elton John concert she went to with Yvonne – before concerts ended for her.
Mrs. and Mr. Cooke appear from out of the kitchen with armfuls of candles.
“No panic, no panic,” says a panicked Mr. Cooke, rushing from table to table in his chef’s attire, setting down big, fat, white candles. There is something endearing about his concern for his customers. Mrs. Cooke may be equally concerned but she moves with the calm confidence of a woman used to people and things giving way to her.
“Light up them candles like a good man,” she says to Wayne Hill.
To Grace’s surprise, the contrarian gets to his feet and obliges without remark. He seems even taller than she remembers and, in the candlelight, his features look softer, boyish even. She has heard, somewhere, that the best time to sell a horse is at sunset. The same must be true of candlelight.
By the time Wayne Hill returns to the table, the restaurant looks so pretty that Grace hopes that the power will stay off.
“This is nice,” she admits.
“Isn’t it?” The guy actually smiles. Must be the wine. He tips more into their glasses. Then gazes at her. “So, did you always want to be a doctor?”
More comfortable when he was prickly, Grace shrugs with a silent tilt of the head, then reaches for her wine.
“Wow. Are you always so talkative?”
She looks into his eyes, daring him. “You were in the waiting room, this morning. You probably know all about me.”
“Wait.” He squints. “Are you saying you’d rather if people were cold, aloof, disinterested?”
She makes a “very-funny” face.
Wayne Hill tips back on his chair looking like he is indeed amused. “You were the news of the day it has to be said. Dr. Sullivan’s daughter returns home to Killrowan.”
Her life reduced to seven words. She lays her knife and fork down on her plate, done.
“As for the waiting room? I learned everything, in line, outside the clinic. Knew what you looked like before I ever saw you.”
She raises an eyebrow. “And I thought you hated gossip.”
“Blocking my ears would have been rude.”
“So, you subjected yourself to torture.” She swills the wine around in her glass then looks up at him. “You know, if you really wanted to avoid attention, you should have moved to New York City. Isn’t that what they say? The best place to hide is right in the middle of a crowd.”
“True.” He lets his chair down and gazes into the fire. Then, as though talking to himself, he says, “Sometimes, though, a person needs to get away.”
This she understands.
“Anyway, this part of the world is inspiring. I’m writing four thousand words a day. Sometimes six.”
“Is that good?”
“Wait, is that an actual question?” he asks in mock horror.
She smiles and shrugs. “Just wanted to prove I’m like everyone else.”
“You’re not, though,” he says, holding her gaze.
“So, what are you writing about here on Torc?” she asks to prove him wrong. And, admittedly, because she also is curious.
“It’s a story about a man who travels to Ireland to find his birth mother.”
Automatically, she wonders if this is his story. “Sounds good.”
“There you go again, not asking.”
“What?”
“If it’s autobiographical.”
She gives in with a smile. “Okay, the question had occurred.”
He squints at her. “Is this some kind of reverse psychology you have for getting people to talk? Don’t ask. Make them want to tell you.”
She puts her hands up. “You’re onto me.”
He laughs. “Good trick. When people are nosey, I clam up. When they’re not, I wanna talk. What does that make me?”
“Human?”
He shakes his head. “Definitely not.”
“Obstinate?” she tries again.
“Getting warmer.”
“Cantankerous?” A smile escapes.
“Warmer still.”
“How about impossible?”
He points at her. “Yup! That’s it! That’s me!”
She laughs.
Heads turn.
She turns hers right back. She is so tired of taking things lying down.
“I can’t believe I made you laugh.”
&
nbsp; “I have been known to laugh. Occasionally.”
He rests his chin on his hand. “You know, when you were forced to sit down here and it was very clear that it was the last thing you wanted to do, I set out to make you laugh. It was ambitious. A lot of hard work. A struggle, in fact. I almost quit. The power cut renewed my energy. And finally, I did it. I think I deserve a medal. Or at the very least some chocolate.”
“Wasn’t the laugh reward enough?” she smiles.
“No. I need chocolate.”
Grace glances around at the desserts that have started to be plonked down in front of other diners. “Oops! Looks like they’re offloading their ice cream before it melts.”
“Any chocolate flavour?” he asks, scanning the bowls himself now.
“I’m afraid, my friend, it is vanilla or strawberry.”
He puts his hands to his face. “She called me friend.”
She laughs and shakes her head and yet, weirdly, finds herself imagining that friendship with this grumpy, moody man might not be impossible.
26
Grace finds her way upstairs by candlelight, psyching herself up for a cold, dark room without heating. Though her clothes no longer feel damp, they probably still are. She’ll have to sleep naked while they dry – if they do. She turns the quaint, old-fashioned key in the lock and opens the door to a complete surprise. She could hug Mrs. Cooke – and that’s saying something. The room isn’t just candlelit, it’s candle-filled. Behind a screen is a blazing fire. It’s probably breaking a million different health and safety regulations. Grace doesn’t care. To her, this is better than any five-star hotel. And, for one night, it is all hers.
She drops her bag and coat inside the door, kicks off her shoes and hurries out of her tights. Then she goes straight to the fire and takes away the screen. She squats down, holds her hands up to the heat then breathes in and out deeply, taking air right into the ribs in her back. Then she remembers home – and Alan. She takes out her phone. But there’s no service. Reluctant to leave the fire, she paces the room trying to find a signal – without success. She could go back downstairs and try the corridor again. But she’s not leaving this room. She’s just going to have to trust that they’re okay till the morning. And that Alan can live without a call till then.
She pulls up a chair to the fire and considers the day that started so badly. It wasn’t a total disaster after all. It was stimulating, challenging, and confidence-building to see so many patients, one after the other, without a break. And she was up to it. Nothing fazed her. Even the Wayne Hill situation resolved itself, in the end. She hopes. She thinks of him heading off into the storm to return to his cottage and how strange life is. The last thing she expected going out to the island was to meet another outsider, running from their past – another hater of gossip. Maybe she’s even glad she had to stay over.
She’s definitely glad when she checks out the bathroom. It is old-world beautiful, antique bath with little legs, farmhouse sink and big antique mahogany mirror. More flowers and L’Occitane products. Grace carries all the candles in, dotting them around the room. The mirror doubles them. Heaven.
Running a bath, Grace tips the entire bottle of the L’Occitane lavender oil provided (another hug for Mrs. Cooke) into the stream, closes her eyes and inhales. She could be in a spa. She slips out of her clothes and hangs them on the back of the chair in front of the fire.
It’s so long since she’s had a bath. It’s always been a (quick) shower. She tests the water with a toe, then, in she goes, adding cold water and lifting her feet one at a time until the temperature is as hot as she can tolerate. Slowly, she submerges with a long breath out so that only her head is above the water. As the wind howls outside, Grace starts to play with the soap, humming a song from her childhood. “I Do Like To be Beside the Seaside.”
Fingertips shrivelled and face flushed, Grace finally parts with bath magic. Maybe she’ll have time for another in the morning. Then again, maybe not. She returns the candles to the bedroom padding around, wrapped in thick, white fluffy towels. Her mind starts to slip back to the threat of Simon, but she pulls it away. She will not let him invade this night. She scans Mrs. Cooke’s mini library of books. It’s so long since she read for pleasure. Everything has had a purpose: escape and the planning of it. Now, her fingers, running over the spines, stop at a familiar name. She eases out a novel by Wayne.
She wonders if it might be a little bleak: one man’s fight to find a cure for his son. Opening it to scan the first page, she comes across his signature in a flourish of black ink. The book is autographed to Mrs. Cooke. Weird. Grace can’t imagine the formidable woman asking for anyone’s autograph. Maybe it was a gift.
Letting her towel fall to the ground, Grace climbs into bed naked. And gasps. The crisp white sheets are freezing. She pulls the quilt up to her neck and waits for her body to warm them. At last, she opens the book.
With every page, Grace is pulled deeper and deeper into this new world. The characters have become real. She feels for them. Laughs with them. Cries for them. Mostly, though, she hopes for them. Every doctor should read this book. To see things from the patient’s point of view. Not just the patient but the family of the patient. In college, they teach doctors empathy. This is the best lesson in empathy she has ever come across.
At four am, she wishes she had Internet. Could this, too, be autobiographical? She hopes not. Because this brave, fearless, warm and loving man has lost his fight to save his only child. His marriage is crumbling under the pressure. There are only five chapters left when Grace’s eyes betray her and close, unable to stay open any longer.
Grace doesn’t wake till eleven. She jumps out of bed and hurries to the window. The wind seems to have died but she knows now how deceptive it is on the island. She opens the window and listens. Nothing but the shrill cry of gulls. She wishes she could see the sea but then she’s no sailor. She wouldn’t know what she was looking at in terms of a ferry travelling.
She dresses quickly and shoots through the door, almost tripping over a breakfast tray that has been left on the floor outside her room. She carries in the mouth-watering selection of hams, cheeses, breads and coffee, places it on her little table, and then takes off again.
Striding down to the pier, the sea still looks choppy. Grace is reassured, however, to see Ger Daly preparing to row out to the ferry. She hurries up to him.
He turns. “Ah, ’tis yourself, Young Dr. Sullivan. Did you have a good night’s sleep?”
That’s when it hits her: it’s the first time in years she has fallen asleep without worrying. She’ll have to make bedtime reading a habit. “Great thanks. What time are you heading across?”
Ger Daly does what he does best; he looks out to sea. “I’m hoping we might be able to get away in an hour or so. I’ll send someone up to Cooke’s to let you know.”
“Great, thanks.” She’ll come down and check for herself in forty-five minutes. Just to be on the safe side.
Over breakfast, Grace returns to Wayne Hill’s novel, hoping to finish it before leaving.
At eleven forty-five, with one chapter left, she reluctantly, closes the book. She can’t miss the ferry.
Downstairs, passing over her credit card, she risks the wrath of Mrs. Cooke and pulls the book from her bag.
“Mrs. Cooke, would you mind if I borrowed this until I’m back over in two weeks? I’ve just a chapter to go and I’m gripped.”
The look of prison guard is back. “I don’t normally lend my books. Especially my Wayne Hill books.” She passes the credit card machine to Grace.
Entering her number, Grace remembers all the people who never returned her books. “I understand.” She passes back the machine.
Mrs. Cooke tears off the receipts and hands one to Grace with her card. She folds her arms, observing her.
“But. It’s a good chapter. In a great book. So, go on. Take it. But…” She wags a finger at Grace. “I’ll be sending out a posse if I don’t see it in two w
eeks.” She raises her eyebrows. “I won’t forget now, mind.”
Grace crosses her heart. “I promise you’ll have it back. I’ll look after it like a diamond.”
Mrs. Cooke looks down at the book in Grace’s hand and smiles fondly. “His bark is worse than his bite, isn’t it?”
“Wayne Hill’s?” Grace asks in surprise.
“First time he came into the restaurant, I thought he was a grumpy old so and so.” Not a million miles away from what Grace had thought of Mrs. Cooke. “But he’s been in every day, since, for his dinner. And he’d do anything for you, anything at all. And he’s a great tipper. I’ve grown fierce fond of him. Anyway, I won’t hold you up. Thanks for staying at Cooke’s. You’re welcome back at any time.”
“Thanks so much. I had such a good time. I’ll be posting a review on TripAdvisor.” It occurs to Grace that Mrs. Cooke has probably never heard of it.
But she clasps her hands together in front of her amble bosom. “Oh, that would be great altogether. Thank you, love.”
“Better go. Can’t miss this ferry.”
Grace rushes up to the surgery to collect Wayne Hill’s sample, then back down again. She’s still first to board the ferry, which – though still in the shelter of the harbour – is markedly rocking. Making her way to a seat, Grace, at one moment feels like gravity is pulling too hard, then as if her feet are barely touching the floor. Dropping into a seat, she opens her bag and goes in search of Motilium.
Pill safely downed, she takes out the book and gets lost in words.
The engine starts with a rumble. Grace looks up. And finds herself alone. Would no one else risk the trip? Should she? She reminds herself that Ger Daly has been making this crossing for decades. He knows it like his own child. If, indeed, he is a father.
Season of Second Chances: an uplifting novel of moving away and starting over Page 13