‘But in general, when you’re at work.’ He pauses to scan the form. ‘Lewisham council – what do you do there?’ He glances at me, blinks behind his glasses and I manage to make eye contact. He really does have the most amazing emerald green eyes, nestling in long, velvety dark lashes. I take a deep breath and look away to concentrate on the pattern of my patchwork handbag instead.
‘Oh, I’m a housing officer.’ I wish I hadn’t come here now, it’s clear that he isn’t going to give me the pills, and I feel ridiculous, sitting here, fidgeting like a bashful schoolgirl, barely able to look him in the eye.
‘But? I sense there’s something else?’ He raises his eyebrows and I cough to clear my throat, shifting in my seat. There’s another short silence.
‘Well, there is something. Quite a few things, actually.’ I fiddle with the tassels on my scarf, figuring it best to say something as he’s clearly not going to stop with the interrogation unless I do.
‘Go on,’ he says, nodding encouragingly and staring right at me now.
‘I’ve made some mistakes, taken my eye off the ball as it were.’ I shrug sheepishly, really wishing he wouldn’t look at me that way, as if analysing, I know it’s his job and all that, but still … And why is it so hot in here? I tug at the neckline of my Ho Ho Ho jumper – I put it on before I came out as it’s perishing cold this evening, and I have my own jeans on too, after Lawrence kindly tumble dried them while I was down at Hettie’s. It might even be below zero degrees already outside and it’s snowing hard. I glance at the window and see that it’s a sheet of fuzzy white fluff.
‘Would you say this is due to lack of concentration?’
‘Oh definitely – and dark thoughts, I get them a lot of the time because I feel so fed up,’ I tell him, remembering how hard it is to feel motivated at work, and I know I could so easily have added those noughts on to Jennifer Ford’s benefit payment. I really enjoyed today with Hettie – life would be so much better if I could do that every day – and I didn’t make any mistakes at the House of Haberdashery. Then I realise: I didn’t feel tired either, that fuggy feeling I’ve had for months now wasn’t there and I felt alive, alert, interested for a change. ‘It’s like I’m sleepwalking through my own life when I’m at work.’ I concentrate on the snow, swirling all around right outside the surgery window. I can see the twinkling lights of the High Street too, which reminds me, I must go and pick up Basil before it gets late. I mustn’t take advantage of Lawrence’s hospitality. He’s already babysat me enough this weekend.
‘Hmm, I’ve seen this a few times with these particular sleeping pills: mild to moderate depression. A mind fog, or wading through treacle, is how some of my other patients describe it.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I say, my heart sinking at the prospect of another sleepless night, as it’s obvious he isn’t giving me the prescription.
‘It could explain the problems you’re having at work too, if you’re experiencing side effects of this kind; you might find they lessen if you stop taking the sleeping tablets and that, in turn, might make you feel …’ he picks his words carefully, ‘more relaxed, which will help you to sleep.’ It’s his turn to glance away now. ‘There really are some alternative treatments that help,’ he quickly adds. ‘I’ve had remarkable results with hypnotherapy – it’s very good in treating the cause of the insomnia.’ Oh no, I can’t sit here in a trance and tell him all about being jilted, he’ll just think I’m some kind of freak. ‘How long are you here for?’ he smiles.
‘Only until Sunday,’ I say, sighing inwardly with relief at having the perfect excuse to not have to do a tell-all with him, but there’s disappointment too, at having to return to my dull, nondescript life.
‘I see, well that’s a shame. Sometimes a break, a proper rest, really helps. I could sign you off work for a week or so? You may find it’ll help get your mojo back, rather than continuing with the sleeping pills. They do have a tendency to mask the real problem.’ He starts riffling through the clutter on his desk. ‘Can’t you stay longer?’ he then adds, sounding disappointed, and then actually looks a bit flustered, as if he’s overstepped some kind of imaginary line.
‘I’d love to, but …’
Silence follows.
‘Ah, here it is.’ He plucks a leather-strapped watch from inside a brochure about breast-feeding and holds it up in the air, ‘Jesus, is that the time already? Nearly seven, so there’s no point me giving you a prescription even if I wanted to – which I don’t, for the record – the chemist is closed now.’ He sweeps a hand through his thick curls, stops talking and buckles the watch around his wrist, seemingly engrossed and perhaps relieved at having a task to occupy himself with, but I can’t be sure.
‘OK, well, um, er, thanks anyway.’ I stand up and pull on my parka. A night of knitting it is, then. I’ve just reached the door when he coughs as if to clear his throat.
‘But there is another option, something else. Something I probably shouldn’t recommend at all,’ Dr Darcy says too quickly, as if he needs to get the words out before I leave and he misses his chance, or he changes his mind, maybe … perhaps. I can’t really tell for sure; my flirtometer gauge seems to be completely askew.
‘What’s that then?’ I say over my shoulder, and he’s standing up now with one hand pushed into his jeans’ pocket and the other batting his curls away from his face.
‘Brandy!’
‘Brandy?’ I blink.
‘Um, yes. That’s right. Er, purely for medicinal purposes,’ he adds, pushing his glasses further up his nose and averting his eyes. He is nervous! Oh my God. And it’s very endearing. And appealing. My plum tomato cheeks make a rapid return.
‘OKaaaaay,’ I say slowly, smiling and thinking this is very unorthodox for a doctor.
‘My old Irish granny swears by it.’ And he actually grins, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he places both hands on his hips in a much more confident stance, like he’s getting into his stride now. ‘What do you say to a quick short in the pub? On me! Um, well, what I really mean is, with me. If you’d like to …’ And he quickly busies himself by trying to pull his duffel coat off the coat stand, but it gets tangled and ends up toppling over – he rescues it just in time, ‘to apologise for knocking you over earlier. I really am very sorry about that. Just so you know, I don’t make a habit of flooring my patients. Honestly, I really don’t.’ And I get the feeling that this is also his way of saying he doesn’t ask all his patients to join him in the pub either, after surgery hours. ‘And I’ll try really hard not to knock anything over.’ He shakes his head, gesturing to the coat stand. I look him in the eye; and that fluttery flattering feeling on first seeing the message in Lawrence’s breakfast room makes a rapid return.
‘Well, if your old Irish granny swears by it,’ I lift my eyebrows, ‘then how can I refuse?’ And his smile widens. I smile too, figuring it’ll also be a very good opportunity to ask about the newspaper message, because something I have learnt from the fiasco that was my last relationship is that it is far better to tackle things head on, rather than ignore them and hope they’ll go away. If I had done that, then I wouldn’t have floated all the way to the altar on a cloud of oblivion. Besides, this is intriguing, and now that I’ve met Dr Darcy he really doesn’t seem like the type of man that goes around leaving flirty messages for strangers on trains just for belly laughs.
‘Grand.’ He finally manages to extrapolate his coat from the hook on the coat stand and pushes his arms into the sleeves.
‘Oh, but I must collect my dog first.’
‘Is that Basil? The one who tried to swipe my muffin?’ he laughs.
‘Um, yes, that’s the one. Sorry again about that.’ I roll my eyes and shrug, thinking, ahh, so he does remember our meeting on the train.
‘Where is he?’ he asks.
‘At the pet parlour in the High Street.’
‘Well, that’s on the way so I can come with you, if you like …’ he pauses, and the apparent nervousness from earlier
momentarily returns ‘… to pick him up,’ he clarifies.
‘Sure, that would be great,’ I say, feeling equally nervous, but rather excited too.
With Basil bouncing along in front of us, we walk past the village hall where the pantomime rehearsal is obviously in full swing. A hearty rendition of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ is belting out and they’ve just got to the figgy pudding part as we pass Ruby’s shop and head along the High Street.
‘So, what brings you to Tindledale?’ Dr Darcy asks, still sounding like a doctor, and not a man who’s just asked me out for a drink. Hmm, maybe he’ll relax when we get to the pub.
‘I came to see Cher, the new pub landlady – we’re old friends. But I’m surprised you don’t already know that,’ I laugh to lighten the mood as I glance at him sideways.
‘Ah, yes, it can be a bit like that in the village.’ He looks at me and laughs too. ‘It took me a while to get used to it when I first arrived in Tindledale to take over from old Dr Donnelly when he retired.’
‘Was that very long ago?’
‘Three years this Christmas, so I’m still very much considered a newcomer. I think you have to be here for at least fifty years before you can class yourself as a local.’ We both laugh some more.
‘So what brought you to Tindledale?’ I ask.
‘Dr Donnelly is my uncle, and I was looking for a fresh start, so it made sense …’ His voice trails off and a short silence follows as we carry on walking side by side, kicking the snow up into little flurries as we go. I’m wondering if it’s OK to ask why he wanted a fresh start, when he adds, ‘I had just been dumped. For a surgeon.’ His shoulders drop slightly.
‘That’s a shame. Sorry,’ I sympathise.
‘Shit happens,’ he says by way of explanation, and then suddenly flips back to the start of our conversation. ‘But the villagers mean well, I find. They’re very welcoming and friendly.’ He pats Basil’s head as he body slams into the side of his left leg before beetling off to bite more snow. ‘He’s a livewire. How old is he?’
‘Six!’ I shrug, shaking my head. ‘So he really should know better, but I’m still training him.’
‘Well, maybe he’s just a slow learner. Young at heart.’ He grins.
‘Maybe. Or just a bit cheeky.’ I say, remembering the first time I met Basil. ‘He’s been like it from the start. He was in a huge crate with the rest of the litter, eight puppies in total, and I bent down intending to stroke each of them in turn as I wasn’t sure which one to go for, when a black bundle of fluff barged the other pups out of the way to get to my hand first.’
‘That’s cute,’ Dr Darcy says, giving Basil another stroke as he does a flyby circle of our legs before bouncing back off into the snow again.
‘He wouldn’t let the other puppies get a look-in, so I guess he chose me, in a way.’
‘Well, he has very good taste,’ Dr Darcy says, making me glow as we reach the end of the High Street and walk onto the snow-covered village green, heading around the edge of the pond towards the Duck & Puddle pub. And it looks so pretty, the Christmas tree in the centre, all twinkly and festive in the silent snowy night. I glance up at the star-studded black sky – this place is so perfect.
And suddenly, I can feel myself falling, skidding on a patch of black ice. Instinctively, Dr Darcy grabs my hand and I manage to avoid ending up on my knees again in front of him.
‘Are you OK?’ he says, quickly pulling me up and in close.
‘I think so. Thank you for catching me in time,’ I say, stepping back and brushing the snow from the front of my parka with my free hand. Basil bombs over to see what’s going on, and then legs it away again, when something rustling in the undergrowth catches his attention.
‘The black ice can be lethal. Come on, let’s get back on to the grass, we’re almost there now.’ Dr Darcy grips my hand a little tighter. And it feels nice, sort of warm and cosy and comforting. Strong and reassuring too, trusty even. Well, he is a doctor after all. I smile to myself, thinking of that line, trust me, I’m a doctor, and Mum would probably faint with joy if she could see me now. Sauntering, hand in hand through a magical, romantic, olde-worlde village with a very appealing doctor; it’s just like something from a rom-com film.
We reach the pub and I realise that we’re still holding hands when I go to pick Basil up.
‘Oh, um, sorry,’ Dr Darcy says, gently letting my hand go.
‘Don’t be,’ I grin, but the moment fades as a rotund woman wearing a tartan blanket around her shoulders and a man’s battered old Trilby hat on her head comes hurtling through the pub door with a pint of Guinness in one hand and a box of firelighters in the other.
‘Got the last lot from the pub shop,’ she bellows, waggling the box in the air with glee, before downing her pint in one and burping. ‘Oops, sorry doc, didn’t see you there,’ she adds, giving him a sheepish look. ‘Only the one tonight.’ The woman pushes the empty glass towards Dr Darcy by way of proof.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he says diplomatically. The woman offloads the glass on to one of the wooden bench tables outside the pub and sways off up the lane, laughing and swearing to herself.
‘One of your patients?’ I smile at him over my shoulder as we go into the pub.
‘How did you guess?’ He shakes his head and glances heavenward.
And the minute we walk through the inner door, the villagers are on him. I’ve never seen anything like it. Anyone would think he was a celebrity, or a member of boy band, or maybe a man band, because he’s hardly a boy, but still, they’re actually mobbing him. Well, shaking his hand and slapping him on the back at least. It’s strange, but lovely too, in a crazy, old-fashioned way that the village doctor is so clearly revered.
‘Dr Ben!’ a man wearing wellies and denim dungarees over a chunky cable-stitch jumper (handknitted) yells from the bar. ‘Over here. Let me get you a brandy? Least I can do. That cream you gave me has worked a treat.’
‘Sorry,’ Dr Darcy mouths to me looking a bit embarrassed as I settle Basil on the blanket by the blazing fire.
‘You’re very popular, I see.’ I pull off my coat and glance around the pub; it’s packed. I do a quick fingers crossed in my head that none of the crowd mentions my face plant in the snow earlier on. Dr Darcy (or maybe it’s Dr Ben, as that’s what they’re all calling him and he doesn’t seem to mind) takes my coat and hangs it with his on the back of a chair. By the time we reach the bar, a crowd has formed, all of them wanting to chat to the doctor, thank him, and tell him about their various ailments. I stand next to him and grin, unsure really of what else to do.
Clive spots me and after we’ve hugged he glances at Dr Darcy and then winks at me as if to say, nice work Sybs. I grin.
‘Are you hungry, love, I’ve got some sticky toffee pudding left if you fancy a wedge? Steak and ale pie is all gone, I’m afraid,’ Clive shrugs.
‘Ah, no thanks.’ I shake my head, not really wanting to get stuck into a big pudding in front of everyone here at the bar.
‘Can I have it then?’ the guy in dungarees pipes up. ‘Be a shame to waste it.’ He rolls up his sleeves in anticipation.
‘But you’ve already had a wedge,’ another man yells from the end of the bar, ‘give it to me Sonny. Only fair.’ And Clive, aka Sonny, holds up his palms to quieten the pair.
‘Alright fellas, no need to fight over it, it’s the size of a house brick so I’ll bring it with two spoons and you can share.’ Clive turns to me. ‘Can I put your name down for the karaoke?’ he asks keenly. I open my mouth to reply, but Dr Darcy talks instead.
‘No, you can’t leave me on my own.’ He looks at the bar and I immediately see why – there are already four glasses lined up in a row, each of them three fingers full of brandy. Taking two of the tumblers, he places them in front of me. ‘Please, I’m begging you to help me out. It’s like this every time I come in here and it’d be rude not to.’ He pulls a face and laughs. ‘For the sake of my liver, before it packs up and
I’m carted back to Dublin in a box,’ he pleads. ‘And I guarantee you’ll sleep well tonight.’ He lifts a glass and knocks it back.
‘Are you sure you’re a proper doctor?’ I laugh too, lifting one of the glasses, ‘because this is very unorthodox.’ And I down the warm liquid, instantly feeling relaxed as it radiates through my body.
‘Yes, I really am a proper doctor,’ he grins, ‘but you can call me Ben, seeing as we’re drinking buddies now.’ He pulls out a bar stool for me to sit on.
‘Thanks.’ I sit down and rest one elbow on the bar, turning to face him. Then I take a deep breath and say, ‘So, Ben, tell me why you left the message on the newspaper for me.’
‘Well, I probably shouldn’t have been earwigging your conversation, but before I got off the train, one stop before Tindledale, I had to call into a friend’s house to collect my car – he was servicing it for me – I overheard you asking about somewhere to buy a gift for your friend, who I now know is our very own pub landlady, Cher.’ He takes another mouthful of brandy before adjusting his glasses and glancing away as if he’s nervous again. ‘I thought it might help you out. Pam, my receptionist, had mentioned that Tindledale Books is now stocking a range of scented candles – she was very excited. They’re part of a new gift range initiative that Adam is trying out, much to Mrs Pocket’s disdain, apparently.’ And I swear he rolls his eyes, which as the village GP he probably isn’t really allowed to do as I bet she’s one of his patients. There’s bound to be special doctor protocol about that kind of thing. But, I can’t help thinking, Ha! so he knows what a dragon she is then.
‘Ah, I see.’ I contemplate telling him what happened when I met Adam, but a guy comes over and, after buying Ben yet another brandy, he thanks him for looking after his wife last week when she had a nasty bout of morning sickness.
After the second, or maybe it’s the third drink – I’ve lost count now – but my fears of rejection and humiliation or a repeat performance of my showdown with Adam have definitely floated away on a big brandy boat, so I decide to cut to the chase and go for it when the man wanders away to join his friends by the dartboard in the corner.
The Great Christmas Knit Off Page 14