Burnout

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘No.’ Maggie extended a comforting hand. ‘But you’re not alone in that. We’ve all been there,’ she offered, with a flutter of recognition: over the passage of time, she identified more and more with this troubled young woman. ‘How about your friend Fiona? What does she have to say?’

  ‘I get short shrift there.’ Wry smile. ‘Fiona doesn’t see eye to eye with Nic. Nor he with her, come to that. He thinks she’s a bad influence. A rabid feminist, he says.’

  ‘And is she, do you think?’

  ‘Not a bit. She’s pretty forthright, though. Tells it like it is. Says he’s a selfish prat. That I’m shouldering the heavier workload. But, then, she and Stuart don’t have kids. Plus, there’s the Scottish thing.’

  Maggie raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘Fiona says serves me right for marrying an English git.’

  Maggie chuckled. ‘That’s not very PC.’

  ‘I know. And I wouldn’t have taken her remark on board, at first. But now…’ She broke off, a look of misery on her face. ‘Now I can see where she’s coming from.’

  ‘I gather they really don’t get on.’

  ‘No.’ Ros made a face. ‘You’d think Nic would listen to someone in his inner circle, wouldn’t you? Stuart and Fiona are our closest friends. Our only friends, really, in Aberdeen. Other than you,’ she quickly added. ‘Nic and Stuart rub along well enough. But, then, they have to, they have work in common. And we get on fine as a foursome. We might not always agree, but it’s just friendly banter. When it comes to me and Fiona on our own, though, Nic makes all sorts of excuses why we shouldn’t meet up. So much so I’m beginning to think he doesn’t want me to see her at all.’

  ‘Sounds like he sees Fiona as a threat.’

  ‘Well, they do seem a bit…’ She struggled to find the word. ‘Confrontational at times.’

  ‘Don’t you have other friends?’

  Ros brightened. ‘Of course. But the crowd from school and uni are all over the place now. Scattered to the winds, you might say.’

  ‘How about here, in Aberdeen? Other mums?’

  Ros rolled her eyes. ‘I wish. There’s a bunch of women at nursery, congregate in the family area. They seem a jolly lot, and not unfriendly. It’s just I’m always in such a rush, trying to fit in a shop or whatever after school. I tend to cut it fine, and then I daren’t hang about. Nic likes me to have Max fed and settled before he gets in.’

  ‘What about your parents?’ Maggie queried. ‘Couldn’t you take a break? It often helps to put some distance between…’

  ‘Not a good time. Mum hasn’t been well. I wouldn’t want to bother her. Or Dad, especially since they weren’t that hot on Nic in the first place. What I’m really saying, if I’m honest, is my pride won’t let me. And it’s not as if I’m nineteen. I’m a grown woman, Maggie. I have to sort this out for myself.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ Maggie said. ‘But it seems to me you’ve become isolated, whether by accident or design. And that can’t be healthy.’ As she voiced the words, she thought of her own situation: a forty-something widow, struggling to construct a future, and all the while her kids drifting away.

  ‘So true. I’ve gone from living in a city surrounded by family and friends to being stuck with a small child in an academic bubble. If I didn’t have my Seaton job I think I’d have gone stark raving mad.’

  Maggie nodded her understanding.

  ‘But it’s not Nic’s fault, you know. He moved up here for a senior lectureship. And I was with him on that. Only…’ Ros’s voice wavered, ‘I didn’t think it would be this hard.’

  ‘Has his behaviour changed, would you say, since the move?’

  ‘Not really. He’s always been…picky, I suppose you could call it. I’m not used to that in a man. I mean, my dad…’

  ‘You don’t have to explain.’

  ‘I think I just didn’t notice it so much, not till I was at home all day with Max. And since I’ve been back at work, well, I haven’t had space in my head to think, never mind sit down and explain my feelings to him.’

  ‘Could counselling be the answer?’ Maggie ventured. ‘If you were to meet with an independent third party, get the opportunity to open up. Do you think Nic would be willing to commit to that?’

  ‘I doubt it. He doesn’t see that there is a problem, that’s the nub of it. In his mind any misunderstanding lies with me. I’m at my wit’s end, Maggie,’ Ros buried her face in her hands. ‘It’s like walking on eggshells. I try to anticipate his mood.’ She raised her head a fraction. ‘Avoid saying anything contentious. Massage his ego. All that. But no matter what I say or do, he twists it around. And I’m so worn out these days it doesn’t seem worth arguing, so I just let it go.’

  ‘If you ever need to talk,’ Maggie volunteered, ‘just pick up the phone.’ Not that she had time to spare.

  ‘Thanks.’ Ros pushed her empty glass to one side. ‘Today’s been a big help, just offloading to someone. But I better be heading.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Or there will be hell to pay.’

  ‘Off you go, then.’ Maggie reached for Ros’s coat, helped her into it. ‘Better wrap up.’ The weather had taken a turn for the better, but there was a stiff breeze, always, on the Esplanade.

  ‘What about the bill?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Maggie shooed her away. ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Ros summoned a smile. ‘You’re a darling.’

  Maggie watched as Ros threaded her way through the tables. Poor girl. If the unspoken signals she’d picked up were to be relied upon, Ros’s marriage wasn’t likely to survive.

  End of Story

  ‘Before you say a word,’ Ian’s face was tight with anger. ‘It won’t make a blind bit of difference.’

  Maggie perched uncomfortably on the edge of the leather sofa. She’d put added pressure on Wilma, she was convinced, by her mishandling of the Struthers case. Why else would Wilma and the normally quiescent Ian be at loggerheads?

  ‘I wasn’t going to…’ she began.

  ‘Wilma and me have split. End of story.’

  ‘She’s gone?’

  ‘Aye’.

  ‘Can you tell me where?’

  ‘Back to Torry.’ His lip curled. ‘Where she belongs.’

  ‘Is she with her boys?’

  Sharp look. ‘Where else?’

  Relief flooded through Maggie’s small frame. She slumped back on the settee. It squeaked sharply behind her knees.

  ‘She’s safe, at least,’ she ventured, at last.

  ‘If that’s what you’d call it,’ he jeered. ‘Pair of no good…’

  Maggie’s mind worked overtime. She’d hoped to catch Ian on a low, play the little woman, appeal to his softer side. But in this intransigent frame of mind… She could see, now, what Wilma meant when she said her husband was stubborn.

  ‘All I came to say was, it’s not Wilma’s fault, this…’ She struggled for the right word, settled for ‘…mess. It’s mine.’

  A muscle worked in Ian’s jaw. ‘Yours and hers both.’

  ‘Mainly mine.’

  Act humble! She changed tack. ‘George’s death came as a great shock. To me and the kids. So many things came at me,’ she hazarded a covert glance. ‘I was overwhelmed.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  Did she imagine his tone softened?

  ‘And…’ Her voice hitched as the memories came flooding back. ‘Wilma saved my life.’

  ‘She sure saved your bacon.’ There was a hard note in the voice again.

  ‘Yes,’ she conceded. ‘That, too.’

  ‘And you’ve used her ever since.’

  ‘No!’ Maggie jumped forward in her seat. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘So how come Wilma gets to do all the dirty work?’

  ‘She doesn’t.’ Maggie drew a ca
lming breath. ‘We each do what we feel capable of. Wilma has taken on some of the more…’ she hesitated, ‘colourful cases, I’ll grant you. But it’s been a two-way street. We’ve had to learn as we went along. We’ve helped one another to…’

  Ian finished the sentence: ‘Get up to God knows what? Cavort around the country? Stay out till all hours?’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ Maggie responded in a quiet voice. ‘I certainly never set out to take advantage of Wilma in any way.’

  ‘You didn’t need to. She has a good heart.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me.’

  ‘But since you teamed up together you’ve ploughed your own furrow. Without regard to your other responsibilities, seems to me.’

  ‘We might have neglected things at home, I admit, but…’

  Ian cut her short. ‘That’s the understatement of all time.’

  Maggie’s glance swept the room. She was tempted to argue the toss. Wilma kept her home spotless. The fragrance diffusers plugged into every other socket might be a bit OTT for Maggie’s taste, but…

  ‘I’ve hardly seen Wilma since you and her got in cahoots.’ Ian interrupted her train of thought. ‘As for what she gets up to when she’s out and about, I don’t know and,’ he rolled his eyes, ‘I don’t want to know. One thing’s for sure, though…’ He broke off.

  Maggie waited, heart in mouth.

  ‘This business venture of yours has taught me a lesson. Wilma doesn’t belong here.’ That stubborn look again. ‘Never did. Never will.’

  ‘I don’t accept that,’ Maggie answered resolutely, though her heart was racing. This could be her chance – her only chance – to save her friend’s marriage. ‘Wilma’s had a hard life, for sure, and she’s a bit rough round the edges, but she has so many good qualities.’ She met his gaze in mute appeal. ‘She’s positive, open-minded, practical, generous, funny…’ She broke off. ‘Brave, too.’

  Ian didn’t react.

  ‘Whereas I,’ she ran on in desperation, ‘am negative, judgemental, gormless…’

  ‘You make a bonny pair, that’s for sure.’

  Unsure whether this was said in earnest or jest, Maggie didn’t respond.

  ‘But that doesn’t change anything.’

  ‘That’s just it, don’t you see?’ she blurted. ‘Wilma’s changed. I’ve changed.’

  ‘Aye, and not for the better.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ Maggie rose to her friend’s defence. ‘Look at the ways Wilma’s worked to better herself, as she puts it: honing her computer skills, boning up on business practice, even working out at that gym to improve her appearance.’

  Ian came straight back. ‘She was fine the way she was.’

  ‘Plus, she was proud to bring in a bit extra, help with the mortgage…’

  ‘I don’t need any help.’

  ‘No, of course.’ Too late, Maggie realised she’d hit a nerve.

  ‘But I’ve learned so much from her: self-confidence, to accept people for what they are, loads of things, really,’ she broke off.

  ‘All I’m saying is…Wilma’s worked hard to be a better wife, a…a…better person.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ian responded wearily. ‘She’s a grafter, I’ll grant you that.’

  Pig-headed bugger! Maggie had to restrain herself from grabbing Ian by the collar and shaking sense into him. Instead she bit her lip and rose to leave.

  Just the Thing

  The upmarket jeweller on Union Bridge was close-carpeted, its walls lined with warm wood panelling. Into this were set a row of brightly illuminated display cases. They sparkled against their contrasting setting. Like those whopping diamonds in the window, Ros thought, as she sat alongside Nic at the high counter, a sober-suited sales assistant seated opposite.

  ‘I’ve been neglecting you,’ her husband had announced that Saturday morning. ‘A treat, that’s what you need. Put on your glad rags. We’re going into town.’

  ‘But, the baby…’ she countered. ‘He needs changed, and then…’

  ‘Forget about Max.’ Smug smile. ‘Fiona’s going to hold the fort.’

  ‘What about breakfast?’

  ‘Skip it. She knows the ropes. We can grab something in town. Go on.’ He gave her a playful push. ‘She’ll be here in ten minutes.’

  Excited, Ros ran upstairs, exchanged her baggy T-shirt for a Zara blouse, squeezed into her best jeans. She rummaged in the bottom of the wardrobe for a pair of high-heeled boots, slapped tinted moisturiser on her face, added two coats of mascara and a slick of lip gloss, ran a comb through her hair.

  She’d protested when they stood outside. The over-sized watch that marked the establishment proclaimed ROLEX. Way too expensive for a university lecturer, she thought with a sinking heart. In the tiled arcade, she recognised more prestigious names: Omega, Longines. Zenith, the preserve of sports stars and glossy magazines. Revolving platforms displayed rings set with diamonds, emeralds, aquamarines. Swathes of coloured silk set off lustrous pearl ropes. Pendants and earrings dangled from miniature stands. Like Christmas come all at once, she couldn’t help thinking. Even the vertical blinds that backed the displays gave the impression that these treasures were within reach.

  For a few minutes they’d stood, faces pressed against the glass. Then: ‘This is way beyond our budget, Nic,’ she said. ‘I’d be just as happy in John Lewis.’

  He put a finger to her lips. ‘Shush. For my girl it’s nothing but the best.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Look there,’ he said, pointing downwards. Her eyes followed. Sure enough, displays at a lower level offered a range of modern jewellery in silver and semi-precious stones. Necklets, rings and cuffs gleamed against black or purple pads.

  Ros squinted against the light, trying to establish prices.

  ‘Come on,’ Nic tugged at her arm. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

  Now, she sat on an ivory leather stool, butterflies pinging their way around an empty stomach. On the console table, a swivel mirror threatened. Determinedly, Ros avoided catching her reflection.

  Nic took the lead. ‘I’m looking for a gift for my wife.’

  ‘To mark a special occasion?’ the salesman enquired. ‘A birthday, perhaps? An anniversary?’

  ‘Neither.’ Nic smiled. He turned to Ros. ‘To say thanks for putting up with me.’

  She felt a glow of happiness. Beamed at both Nic and the salesman.

  ‘Do you have a budget, may I ask?’

  ‘Nothing too expensive,’ Ros came back quickly. ‘It’s only a token, after all.’

  ‘Did you have anything in mind?’

  ‘Not really,’ she answered. ‘Something in silver, maybe. A ring would be nice.’ Or perhaps not. She glanced down at her hands. Time was, her nails would have been manicured and polished, now they were ragged and stripped of varnish. ‘Or earrings,’ she added hastily. ‘I saw a pair in the window that…’

  ‘Something more substantial,’ Nic cut her short. ‘A necklace. Or a bracelet – one of those cuff things.’

  ‘But…’ Ros squirmed uncomfortably on the high stool. She felt conspicuous, sitting just inside the entrance in full view of the arcade, wished they’d opted for one of the display tables at the rear. She turned to her husband. ‘Don’t you think…?’ A wash of colour crept up her neck as she tried to frame a face-saving excuse. Nic knew full well they couldn’t afford to be buying expensive jewellery, not when they were supposed to be saving for a house.

  ‘No arguments.’ He clasped both her hands in his. ‘Remember what I said.’ He threw the salesman a conspiratorial smile. ‘Nothing but the best for my girl.’

  ‘If you’ll give me a few moments…’ The man rose, his face a study in discretion. ‘I’m sure we’ll have just the thing.’

  Ward 201

  Wilma pushed through the double doors.
Was surprised to find the ward reception unmanned, for she’d identified herself on the intercom and been buzzed through just moments earlier. She could hear a commotion up ahead, assumed staff were attending to some emergency.

  At the abandoned nurses station she scanned the roster on the wall. Staff on duty: Charge Nurse Carol Fowlie headed the list. Not a name she recognised. But she wouldn’t, would she? For all the years she’d worked at ARI, Wilma’s duties had been confined to the General Surgery or Gynae wards on the third and fourth floors. Either that, or Urology on the fifth. She’d rarely had occasion to venture downstairs to Level 1, which housed the main theatre suite and Ward 201/ITU, the intensive therapy unit.

  It had been by sheer luck that she’d eavesdropped on a conversation – two nurses on their break. Overheard a familiar name. Despite the stand-off with Ian, Maggie and the agency were still uppermost in her mind. She’d abandoned her much-needed cup of coffee and clattered down the stairs.

  Curtained bays were set along one wall. On the other, glass-fronted single rooms housed patients requiring isolation. Wilma took a chance, went in the other direction from the hubbub. Had only gone a few steps when a shrill voice echoed: ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Wilma whirled to face a dark-haired twenty-something. She stood, feet apart, face flushed with indignation. The uniform identified her as a charge nurse, the name badge as Carol Fowlie.

  Wilma’s mind went into overdrive. ‘Ah wis jist…’ she began.

  ‘You can’t just come crashing in here,’ Fowlie said. ‘This is a critical care area. These patients are very susceptible to infection.’

  Snooty cow, Wilma thought. They were all the same, these young ones. Reckoned because they had a degree they were as well-qualified as the bloody consultants. Besides which, Wilma could tell the wee bitch something about infection. Hadn’t she been cleaning for God knows how long?