Cath Staincliffe - Go Not Gently

‘Fine, I said. ‘When I see you on Monday we’ll fix up a time for the Tuesday morning. And once we’ve seen both doctors we can assess where we’re up to.’

‘Whether it’s all a waste of time.’

‘No, I didn’t mean…’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘it’s difficult to remain even-tempered sometimes. I do appreciate your help.’

There wasn’t anything to do on the case until Monday. It was Thursday night. A three-day weekend then, one of the perks of part-time hours. And if I got some of the chores out of the way while the children were at school on the Friday there’d be more time for enjoying ourselves at the weekend proper. We’d go down to the park and gardens at Fletcher Moss. It often flooded in the winter but with wellies on, floods could be fun. I’d take Maddie and Tom swimming too or maybe to the pictures. My budget wouldn’t stretch to visits to the big plush cinemas but I could manage an occasional treat at the local picture house. I’d have to ring Cine City, find out what was on. Plenty to do, and more than enough to occupy my mind and stop me puzzling over Lily Palmer’s condition.

First thing Monday morning Jimmy Achebe rang. I hadn’t even opened the post. He spoke hurriedly. He wanted me to do the job, he’d drop off a photo later that day. I reminded him to include his address, his home phone number and a note of any regular appointments Tina had. There was no point in my trailing her to aqua-fit and back, then billing him for it. Were there any days in particular he wanted me to cover?

‘Maybe tomorrow and Wednesday – it’s usually mid-week.’

‘And you tried asking Tina about it?’

‘Yeah. She wasn’t having any of it. Told me I was imagining things, says she’s not hiding anything. Told me to stop harassing her.’ I heard him blow out in exasperation. ‘Look, about the money. I’ll get what I can today but the rest, well, like I said..

‘Don’t worry, I’ll check back with you each time I’ve done a stint. That way, if it starts mounting up you can ask me to stop. How can I get in touch?’

‘I’ll have to ring you,’ he said, ‘but you can leave a message here at work. You’ve got the number, haven’t you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Just say you want me to ring. They’ll pass it on. I hate this. I feel like I’m the one doing something wrong.’

‘Do you want to think it over a bit longer?’

‘No. It’s cracking me up. I just want it sorted.’

There was a lull in my morning after I’d opened and binned the post. I went swimming. Thirty lengths of the local pool and a reasonably hot shower. I emerged into the blank February weather feeling loose-limbed and smug.

Back home Ray had left a note on the kitchen table: ‘Harry knows someone looking for room. Sheila. May ring.’

My heart dipped. In order to make ends meet we needed to let out the attic flat. We rented the house from an ex-lecturer of mine. He’d gone out to do a year in Australia and they kept renewing his contract. We had to cover the mortgage, bills and maintain the place.

Our first lodgers, Joanne and Christine, had been great but they’d moved on once they’d saved enough for a deposit on a place of their own. Their successor, Clive, was the lodger from hell. Since we’d got him out we’d taken a succession of short-term lets: an actor appearing at the Royal Exchange, a teacher who needed a bolt hole while her damp-proof course was done and a German sociologist who was doing a term at the university. They were all a vast improvement on Clive but each time there was the disruption of getting used to a new face at the breakfast table, of negotiating use of the kitchen, the bath and the fridge. And in between we were short on income. We really needed a permanent person but I was still terrified we might end up with another complete wally. My old friend Harry wouldn’t deliberately send me a plonker but sometimes they could be hard to spot.

Not long after lunch I collected Agnes and we drove over to Dr Goulden’s surgery. It was part of a large detached house. Brass plaques on the gatepost and front door showed it also housed Jason and Evers, Architects, and Mowbray Insurance Services. The front gardens had been tarmacked over for parking. Dr Goulden used the downstairs rooms. Reception and waiting room to the left, consulting room to the right.

The receptionist clicked us off on the computer and directed us to the waiting room. Three women were already there. No one spoke to anyone else or made eye contact.

Agnes leant over to whisper to me. ‘When we go in,’ she said, ‘I’ll explain what we want.’

I agreed. ‘You do the talking.’

We were another tedious twenty minutes waiting. I leafed through Marie Claire and Vogue. Gradually each of the three women was summoned by the buzzer and the illuminated sign inviting ‘Next patient please’, and disappeared. Then it was our turn.

Dr Goulden welcomed us with a bright smile.

‘Mrs Palmer.’ He shook Agnes by the hand and gestured to the seat at the side of his desk.

‘I’m Miss Donlan,’ said Agnes. ‘We’ve come about-’

‘I’m sorry,’ he interrupted, the smile replaced by a puzzled look, ‘but I seem to have the wrong notes here.’

‘No, they’re right,’ said Agnes, sitting down. ‘We’ve come about Mrs Palmer.’

‘Aah.’ He regained his composure and fetched an extra chair over from the far corner of the room for me.

‘So,’ he held his hands open to Agnes, ‘how can I help?’

While she explained the situation and her worries I studied Dr Goulden. He was probably in his early thirties, with a square face, thick blond hair, pale blue eyes, sandy freckles. Tall, big-boned. He was impeccably dressed in blue striped shirt, dark blue suit and tie. He probably had to shop at Long and Tall or whatever that specialist shop is called. He sounded solid middle class, no trace of a regional accent. He listened attentively, his head cocked to one side just so you’d know he was listening attentively.

When Agnes had finished he said, ‘I’d just like to clarify a few points. You are a friend of Mrs Palmer’s and this is…’ He looked at me.

‘A friend of the family,’ said Agnes, ‘Sal, Sally.’

I winced visibly. People have a habit of softening my name. But I’ve never been a Sally. Sal was a pet name my dad used. My real name’s Sarah but I’ve been Sal as long as I can remember. Sally makes me feel like a six-year-old.

‘Mmm,’ Dr Goulden didn’t sound all that keen, ‘Mrs Palmer’s son is actually listed as next of kin.’

‘But he’s in Exeter,’ said Agnes. ‘I talked to him on Friday, he’d no objection to me making the appointment. He knows I visit Lily two or three times a week.’ Agnes began to sound defensive.

‘I don’t discuss my patients with other people. Confidentiality is paramount. I’m sure you understand. Mrs Palmer is getting the very best care, Homelea has an excellent reputation-’

‘We could go to the trouble of arranging for Mr Palmer to travel up from Devon to put these questions to you,’ I said, ‘but it seems rather an extreme measure, a waste of time for everyone concerned. We’ve already spoken to Mrs Knight and I’m not aware that there has been any problem about patient confidentiality. If you could answer some of Miss Donlan’s queries we wouldn’t need to trouble you any further.’

There was an uncomfortable pause. We sat it out.

He decided to play ball. ‘Your concern is that Mrs Palmer may be suffering from an acute confusion rather than chronic decline?’

Agnes nodded.

Dr Goulden smiled sympathetically. ‘I’m ninety-nine per cent certain that’s not the case but if you’ll bear with me I’ll scan the notes and see if we could have missed anything.’ He leafed through the papers humming tunelessly. ‘Tum-ti-tum-ti-tum-tum-tum’, a gesture intended to show us that all was well, to demonstrate how competent and relaxed he was.