The doorbell rings then and I run to answer it, my stomach flipping.
The kids, maybe, changing their minds and coming home again?
But it’s just the postman with a parcel, so I take it and thank him, suddenly feeling tearful again. And then as he heads back down the driveway, a movement by the gate catches my eye and for some reason, a shiver runs through me. I stare, blink, but … nothing. There’s nobody there. I glance up and down the empty street, once, twice. Then I double-lock the door and go and join my mother.
Chapter 24
‘Everything OK? Any issues I should know about?’
‘All good thanks, Beth. Everything all right with you? How’s Finley’s ankle?’
Lorraine, her arms full of dressings and blood bottles, smiles at me and I smile back.
‘Doing really well, thanks. He’s in a walking boot now and pretty much running around on it. Should be fine in another couple of weeks. Kids recover so quickly, don’t they?’
‘They do. Right, must get on. See you later.’
She deposits her supplies on her desk and I tick her off the list on the clipboard I’m carrying and head back to my own office. I’ve just done the rounds, checking that all the staff are all right and seeing if any of them have any problems that need to be sorted out. The irony of this hasn’t escaped me. Me, the practice manager, checking on everyone’s welfare when I’m only just managing to hold onto my own wellbeing and sanity by my fingertips. What a weekend. Eloise was still barely speaking to me when Jacob brought the children home last night and this morning wasn’t much fun either. Robin was still icily polite when she turned up to do the school run.
At least when I got to work I was greeted by a wide smile and a hug from Ruth who’s in high spirits today, having been told by her son yesterday that he and his young family are hoping to fly over from Canada for a visit in June or July. Deborah, on the other hand, is still definitely not herself.
‘That’s great news, Ruth,’ she said quietly, as Ruth bounced around the staffroom. Then, head down, she shuffled out of the door and headed off down the corridor, not looking back. I stared after her for moment, then turned to Ruth.
‘Right, enough of this,’ I said. ‘Come on, Ruth. You must know what’s up. I need to know – on a professional level if nothing else.’
Ruth stopped skipping up and down the room and, pink-cheeked, shook her head.
‘She’s fine, honestly,’ she gasped, then clutched a hand to her throat and waved the other at me, signalling that she needed a moment to get her breath back.
‘Really? I don’t think so,’ I said.
Ruth gulped in some air.
‘Just feeling her age, you know. Now, I need to get reception sorted,’ she said, and scampered off, leaving me feeling puzzled and a little left out.
What is it they aren’t telling me? And why aren’t they telling me? We’ve always told each other everything …
The sense of being sidelined, of not being trusted with whatever is clearly going on, has made today’s low mood even lower, but I force myself to keep going, deciding at lunchtime to pop across the road to see Nadia.
‘Hey Nadia, how are you?’
She’s been reading but she’s already put her book down, having spotted me crossing the road, and she smiles her gap-toothed smile. She’s still working her way through the novels I gave her, I notice with pleasure. The Clocks is her current read. There’s a slightly more pungent odour wafting from her today and I wonder yet again if there’s anything more that I, we, the surgery, could be doing for her.
There’s always someone worse off than you, isn’t there? I may be going through a bit of a bad patch at the moment but at least I have a roof over my head, I think.
I hand her the little foil-wrapped parcel of biscuits I’ve liberated from the jar in the staffroom and she nods appreciatively.
‘Thank you, Beth, that’s kind of you,’ she says, and I feel a little shiver of pleasure that my small good deed has clearly made a difference. I perch on the step next to her and we chat easily for a few minutes, me telling her about Finley’s ankle and his remarkably speedy recovery, her telling me about the woman she slept next to in the hostel last night who sang Abba songs in her sleep. It’s a pleasant few minutes, and I find myself enjoying her company and mentally speculating again about the circumstances that led to such a genial, intelligent woman living like this, all alone in the world.
By the time I get back to my office I feel brighter, but the feeling doesn’t last long. There’s a note on my desk from Gabby, asking me to pop in and see her as soon as I can. I sigh, wondering if there’s some new surgery crisis to deal with, and wondering how on earth I’m going to cope with it on top of everything that’s going on at home. By the time I reach her room there’s already a knot in my stomach, and when I see the expression on her face my chest tightens.
‘Beth … something very worrying has been brought to my attention,’ she says.
She points to a piece of paper sitting on her desk, a note of some sort. I glance at it, puzzled, then look back at her.
‘What … what is it?’ I ask.
‘I’ve had a letter. An anonymous letter. And, well, it’s about you, Beth.’
‘About … me?’
My voice sounds weird, too high, even to me. She nods.
‘It’s making some rather worrying allegations. We need to talk, I’m afraid.’
No, please no. Oh God, no, no, no …
My stomach heaves.
This is it, isn’t it? Finally. It’s over. It’s all over …
‘Beth? Are you OK?’
My knees buckle and suddenly Gabby is rushing out from behind her desk, telling me to sit down. I sink into the chair, my breathing fast and shallow, my legs shaking. I have a pain in my chest now too, as if something heavy is sitting on it, pinning me down. Suddenly my vision blurs and the room starts to spin around me. My hands are tingling, and there’s a roaring in my ears. What’s happening to me?
‘Gabby … help me …’ I gasp.
‘Beth, oh gosh, calm down, all right? Breathe, come on. Deep breaths.’
She crouches in front of me, holding my hot, damp hands in her cool, dry ones, and I breathe, breathe, until the trembling begins to ease and my heart rate slows a little, my vision clears, and the pain in my chest subsides.
What was that? What’s wrong with me?
‘I’m all right, thank you,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so sorry …’
‘It’s OK. I think you just had a bit of a panic attack. Do you get them often, Beth?’
Gabby stands up, moving behind her desk again, then seemingly changes her mind about sitting down in her big leather chair and perches on the edge of the polished oak tabletop instead.
I shake my head.
‘No … never. I mean, I get anxious, don’t we all, but no, nothing like that. I’m sorry.’
She shakes her head but I see the concern in her eyes.
‘Nothing to apologise for. Listen, Beth, this letter. It came in the post this morning and it’s unsigned. But it came from someone who seems to mean well. They say they’re extremely worried about you. And having seen the state of you, I’m worried too now.’
Worried about me? So it’s not … not about what happened back then, after all? I think. Relief sweeps over me for a moment but I’m still struggling to comprehend what’s happening here. My head is fuzzy and my heart is still beating far too quickly. I take another deep breath and try to focus.
‘I don’t understand,’ I whisper, and I raise a shaking hand and push my hair back off my sweaty forehead. I’m starting to wonder if I’m actually having another nightmare, if any minute now I might wake up, safe in my bed at home.
‘I’ll explain, but please don’t get upset again.’ Gabby leans forward, squeezes my knee, then straightens up again. She pauses, looking at me for a moment with her head tilted to one side, then picks up the letter.
‘Right. Well, whoever sent this said
they’ve been growing increasingly concerned about you for some time now. And they, for whatever reason, didn’t feel they could speak to you directly so they felt maybe speaking to one of us, the GPs, might be the best way to deal with it—’
‘Deal with it? Deal with what?’ I interrupt her. I’m starting to feel frantic.
‘Beth, please. Deep breaths, remember. OK, well they say they’re concerned about a number of issues.’
She taps the piece of paper with her forefinger, the nail painted a creamy beige.
‘They say they’re worried you may have issues around food. Sometimes you binge eat and sometimes you eat virtually nothing. They’re also concerned about your use of alcohol and say that your heavy drinking has been causing some problems. They’re worried it’s affecting your memory and concentration to a concerning level. You’re very forgetful, apparently, losing your keys and various other things. They’re also worried about the children, Beth. They say you’re distracted and not doing things at home properly, possibly putting the children in danger, and citing Finley’s recent accident as an example. They even think you might be having hallucinations. Apparently you keep seeing a man who you think is following you? And—’
‘But I did! I do!’
I stand up and I’m shouting now but I can’t help it.
‘I did see a man. He was everywhere, and I saw somebody out in the garden looking in my window in the dark too. I even saw his footprints in the flowerbed. I’m not imagining these things! God, Gabby, some of this stuff is true, yes. I have been really stressed, and things have got on top of me at home. But the way you’re saying it, it makes me sound … makes me sound unhinged.’
I sink my face into my hands and I can feel the tears now, hot and angry, spilling out between my fingers. Gabby’s hands are on my shoulders, moving me back to my chair, pushing me gently down until I’m seated again.
‘You’re not unhinged,’ she says gently. ‘Far from it. And I’m glad you feel able to confirm that these are valid concerns, Beth. That’s a very positive step. If it helps, none of this has affected your work here, by the way, not as far as I’m aware anyway. You’ve obviously got an awful lot going on at home, and you’ve clearly been doing a marvellous job of keeping it together and not letting it impact on your job. But Beth, I wish you’d spoken to me, or to one of us. We all struggle at times, and maybe you just need to talk to someone, take some of the pressure off yourself? Maybe a bit of time off, a few duvet days?’
The kindness in her voice brings a fresh rush of tears, but I wipe them away and shake my head.
‘I’m fine, honestly. I mean, what the letter says is largely true; all of those things have happened recently, but … who wrote it, Gabby? Who would do that?’
She shakes her head and shrugs.
‘I have no idea. But it was clearly someone who cares about you very much, someone who wants to help you and just didn’t know how. And that’s why I’m going to do this.’
She stands up and walks quickly across the room, and before I’ve even realised what she’s doing she’s popped the letter into the paper shredder that sits on top of her filing cabinet and pressed the button. The machine whirrs and seconds later the letter has vanished.
‘Gabby!’ I gasp, but she’s shaking her head again as she walks back to her desk.
‘It’s done. I don’t want you anguishing over who sent it, OK? I’m just glad they did.’
‘But Gabby!’
My mind is racing.
Who did this, who? Mum? After our conversation on Saturday, when she told me how worried she was about me, she seems the most likely suspect. But no. She did have the courage to confront me, didn’t she? She told me she was concerned; she spelled it out. Why write a letter too? That wouldn’t make sense, would it? So who else? Who was worried but felt they couldn’t say anything? Jacob? Brenda or Barbara? Robin? Ruth or Deborah, even? They’ve all expressed some concerns over the past few weeks, haven’t they? All mentioned my eating habits, or my drinking, or my forgetfulness, told me to stop worrying about someone following me. They all know about Finley’s accident … What if some of them got together, shared their concerns, and decided telling Gabby was the way to go? But that seems so unnecessary, so strange … and surely they’d know this could get me into big trouble? If Gabby thinks I’m not fit for work, I could lose my job …
I’m feeling panicky again. I need to convince Gabby that everything is OK, that I’m fine. I take a deep breath and sit up straight.
‘OK, you’re right. Who sent the letter doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘But I’m on top of this, I promise. Yes, I have been drinking a bit too much recently. With Mum suddenly back in my life, and Dad’s stroke, and Finley’s accident … well, all of it. It’s just become a habit, and I’ll stop. I will. And the rest of it, well, I’ve just been a bit scatty. I don’t need any time off, honestly. It’s helped just having this chat with you. I’m OK, I promise.’
Gabby is looking at me with a doubtful expression, clearly not entirely convinced, but she nods slowly.
‘All right, we’ll leave it for now. I am concerned, Beth. However, I know you’re a strong and sensible woman, and I’m going to take you at your word that you have all this under control. But we’re here to help. And I want you to promise me that if you’re feeling overwhelmed, or have any more panic attacks, or if you’re struggling to control your drinking or anything else, you’ll come straight back here and talk to me, OK? Promise?’
I give her a little mock salute.
‘Promise, ma’am!’ I say, and she laughs her lovely melodic laugh which always somehow makes me think of sunshine and honey. I leave her then and I go back to my office, and I sit there for a long time, wondering. Wondering who wrote that letter, and whether it really was written by someone who cares about me, or for some other reason. Wondering if I’ll ever have the guts to confront anyone about it. Wondering why everything’s changed so much, why I’ve changed so much. Why, when I should be so happy right now, I’m really, really not. Why, increasingly, I have this low-level, nausea-inducing feeling of pure dread deep inside.
And, most of all, wondering why, despite Gabby’s reassuring words, I have this awful sense that something even worse is just around the corner.
Chapter 25
BRRRR. BRRRR.
It’s after nine on Saturday morning and I’m still in bed when my mobile rings. The kids are both away – Friday night sleepovers with friends – and Mum insisted I make the most of it today, telling me to sleep in as long as I like and promising to bring me breakfast in bed. I didn’t tell her anything about the anonymous letter Gabby received; I’m almost certain it didn’t come from her, and I simply couldn’t face having a conversation about it with her – or with anyone. Not right now. I keep telling myself that whoever sent it did it out of genuine concern, but that feeling that it may have been written with a more sinister motive in mind keeps creeping in and it makes me feel sick. I can’t let myself think that, I just can’t, because if I do it will mean I can’t trust anyone, and that’s unbearable.
So this morning I’m focussing on all that’s good and positive, and I have a lot to be thankful for. Mum, for example, who knocked on my door half an hour ago with a tray of tea and smashed avocado on toast, and a tiny vase with a soft-pink camelia bloom freshly picked from the garden. It’s nice, so nice, to feel loved and cossetted like this. And overall, despite the new anxiety about the letter, I’m feeling so much better this morning than I did a week ago. OK, so I’ve lost Brenda and Barbara, and that still hurts horribly if I let myself dwell on it. And at work, Deborah’s behaviour is still bothering me – on a professional level as well as a friendship one – but no doubt I’ll get to the bottom of that eventually. But at home things are pretty good right now. Robin’s still working for me, which is good enough for now. Eloise, after a frosty few days, seems to have forgiven me for the missing letter and school-trip debacle; all her focus now is on the school play in a couple of weeks’ time,
her little face glowing with excitement at the prospect of her parents, her grandmother, and her auntie all being there to support her. Because yes, to my delight and relief, and despite what happened on her first visit, Liv has promised to come back up to Cheltenham for the occasion. She was bright and bubbly as ever on the phone during the week, saying she wouldn’t miss it for the world. So I’m feeling OK on this Saturday morning, nibbling my toast and sipping my tea. The duvet is cosy around my legs, the radio is tuned to Classic FM, and the calming strains of Grieg’s piano concerto in A minor fill my room as the morning sunlight streams in through the window.
When the phone rings, it’s like an assault, an unwanted intruder, and instantly my heart begins to thump.
A call this early on a Saturday morning can’t be good news, can it? Has something happened to one of the children?
I grab my mobile from the bedside table, but to my relief it’s Ruth’s name on the caller ID and I hit the button to accept the call.
‘Hey, you. You’re up and about early.’
I settle back on my pillows, expecting a gossipy catch-up, maybe a suggestion to meet for a walk or lunch over the weekend. Instead there’s a pause, and when she speaks her voice sounds sharp and tense.
‘Beth, what on earth is that on the surgery Facebook page?’
I frown. I haven’t looked at the page since yesterday morning when I did a quick post; some of our patients have begun dumping their cars on single yellow lines on the street outside the surgery recently instead of using the car park across the road, and I wanted to warn them that traffic wardens have been patrolling the area around us with greater frequency and to be careful or risk a ticket. But that was early, around ten, and I haven’t logged on since.
‘Why? What’s up? Someone said something offensive on there?’
Another pause.
‘Beth … look, I don’t know what’s going on, but … Oh heck, come on, you know what I’m talking about!’
The Happy Family Page 17